


affair

by orphan_account



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anti-Accords but it doesn't matter this isn't a civil war fic, Blood, Blood and Injury, Burns, Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Dad Bucky Barnes, Drama, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Hurt Steve Rogers, Hurt/Comfort, James "Rhodey" Rhodes is a Good Bro, M/M, Not Really Character Death, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Presumed Dead ooh, Presumed character death, Romance, Sam Wilson is a Gift, Scars, Secret Relationship, Sharing a Bed, Sokovia Accords, Steve Rogers Has PTSD, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Suicidal Steve Rogers, Suicidal Thoughts, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Unhealthy Relationships, Whump, dad tony stark, does this count as whump?, he goes evil halfway through the fic but its fine, i love him so much, it is unreal, just me vibing to folkolore :), lovers to enemies??, out of left field there's also, the opposite of enemies to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:40:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26271994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Tony watches Steve at parties. He moves like a ghost, like someone not really living. He moves like there's a devil at his back, a quiet whispering in his ear to make sure the silence that surrounds him at night is brutal and cold. He has nothing here, no friends or family, or approaching storm to prepare for.Until Tony.or: Tony spends a lot of time taking care of Steve Rogers and picking up after his recklessness. Steve has made not a single friend in the new millenium. They fall in love, and then they fall apart.
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Steve Rogers & Tony Stark, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 32
Kudos: 94





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hi im back. this fic is longish but it is prewritten. i will update next week maybe?? subscribe.  
> quick trigger warnings for the chapter itself: Steve is referenced to be suicidal, also Rhodey is referenced to be suicidal. 
> 
> there are a couple more in the later chapters: a small claustrophobia warning in chapter two and some violence and other bad stuff. if it's going to bother you, the political stuff is going to be anti-Accords later on. if there's anything else I should warn for PLEASE tell me. I don't have a good memory for this kind of stuff! the second I go to tag my mind just goes blank lol.

Steve’s been mercurial lately, Tony thinks, idly stirring his scotch. His lips smile, frown, smooth themselves out, within a minute. Sam is a stabilizer, but he can only be so stable when he’s spinning out of control every time he’s forced to follow behind while they search for Barnes. 

Thoughts like this, he has in passing. Rogers looks mercurial. Barton looks lonely. Romanoff is never at the Tower. Nothing that really matters. Tony doesn’t do close relationships, not with these people, at least. Far too military, far too stiff. The scotch has loosened him up, he turns to make a quiet comment to Pepper. 'Is that the friend you were going to introduce to me?' 

'Oh, no, she couldn't make it. Didn't I tell you?' There's a strange twist of loneliness in his heart. Pepper's disinterested lately, more often than not. 

Rogers turns, and it’s there _again_. The flipped switch from respectable soldier to bossy captain. He walks with a disgusting amount of purpose, uniform strides over to Tony. ‘Captain,’ he greets, nodding and raising his glass. Tony shouldn't be musing about this other man's kaleidoscopic mood when he switches from attentive boyfriend to easy-going benefactor the moment he sees a handsome Captain. Pepper's had a couple drinks, and her touches linger when she steadies herself. Rogers looks uncomfortable with even that display. 

Even when he’s resting, it’s like parade rest. Heels perfectly lined up. This ghostly frown on his face. ‘I’m going to be heading out,’ he says, eyes serious. 

‘Oh?’ Tony raises one eyebrow, shrugging freely. ‘Well, there’s still alcohol at the bar, but it’s your choice.’ Barton and Romanoff look close behind him. Not their kind of party. He has no doubt that the only reason they’d stayed was for politeness, but they don’t have the manners bred into Rogers to say a goodbye. Just disappear to the elevator, never to be seen again.

‘Thanks for hosting, Stark,’ Rogers says, nodding briskly. There’s the din of the party, a man propositioning someone a few feet away and a couple old women discussing politics, but Rogers’ feet click loudly anyways, perfectly spaced apart, as he walks away. Head down, shoulders shut off, nothing to see but his disappearing back. 

Pepper’s drunk. ‘He’s not very friendly, is he?’ 

‘It isn’t like we’re close,’ Tony says, hugging her waist. She giggles, all smiles, and leans against his waist. It’s her party, her friends, but he’s treated like the host. 

* * *

Pepper, one weekend, decides to take them to a forest, to a cabin. The door is creaky and mysterious, there is a riotous garden in the back, the bed feels like a cloud. It would be perfect. 

She bites her lip. ‘I don’t know that we have a future,’ she exhales, mouth dipping into a frown. 

‘I want a future, Pepper,’ he replies. So much for true love. So much for the forever he was banking on. 

Her eyes are dewy- _it’s not his place anymore_ \- he wants to wipe them away. ‘I want to love you.’ 

‘I wanted to marry you, I thought,’ she says. ‘But you’re stifling. It’s all stifling, I can’t keep trying to make people like us together. It’s too…’ She gestures with her hands and sighs loudly. Her pretty blue eyes are tired and sad. ‘It’s too much for me.’ 

She had a boyfriend that died when she was nineteen in a tragic car accident. She wants Tony to keep his fast moving metal away from her heart. He could slam into her, he realizes suddenly. He could wreck her. ‘I was trying, though.’ It feels like he’s been cheated. He tried so hard, but there was never any hope. 

She folds her arms. Crossed arms are not defensive, they’re self soothing, someone told him once. Romanoff, back when she was hanging around after the Chitauri attack? ‘There’s nothing we could do, I think. I need to feel at peace.’ His heart dives. 

Rhodey’s said that before. 2006, a set of recurring nightmares that matched the ones of the soldiers he’d served with, the ones that survived. They had retired, but his dream was always to be a Colonel, so he pushed past when it hurt. Tony had seen someone else spiral and he couldn’t do that to Pepper. He wasn’t a minefield. He couldn’t be a bomb waiting in the middle of her road. 

'You're perfect, Tony,' she says softly, head tipped back as she leans back against a wall. 'Can't I be at peace, though? Can't I take my time and get on a plane without wondering where you are, if you're up in the air, too, trying to kill yourself? Can't I stay at Stark Industries late without feeling guilty? Don't feel bad, honey,' she rushes to say. Pepper always tries to fix other people before fixing herself. She doesn't need to say a thing, Tony thinks. He's got this. 

‘I understand.’ He moves to hold her hands. It feels like they’ll always be a tragic ending. Crying at his grave, maybe with a daughter. He wouldn’t do that to his favorite girl in the world. ‘You’ll always be my favorite, okay, Pepper?’ She squeezes his hands lightly, smile fresh and new. A breeze blows through one of the picturesque windows. She takes off the next day in a sensible car and leaves him to rest.

* * *

Tony knows the military, but not the Avengers. There’s a specific roster that’s never made much of a difference. They don’t fight together, anyway. Six different ghosts, four different winds. Thor doesn’t even count, perhaps. Rogers is Boreas, cold, expressionless. 

He used to be mercurial. Now he is just… nothing. Tony wonders, this time not so casually, if he speaks to anyone. Romanoff and Barton are missing; if he really wanted to know, he could ask Fury. He doesn’t care. But he feels like he could be starting to care about Rogers. Pepper isn’t at his side this time, so he’s free to make the first move. ‘How’s business going?’ he asks. 

Rogers is standing by the biggest window, looking down at the city. ‘I bet you like this place. Does it make you feel better than everyone else to be up here with the clouds?’ he asks sharply, still staring down with an intensity he usually seems to reserve for fights. 

‘It is pretty,’ Tony replies coldly. ‘You could just squish them, down there. Like bugs.’ It’s what he wanted to hear. Tony does nothing but please.

Rogers looks up. ‘I’d rather jump, actually, than be like you,’ he tells Tony bitterly. 

Tony’s half drunk, and it takes him until the next morning to wonder if it was a barb or a wish. _I’d rather jump_. I’d rather die than ignore the little guy. I’d rather jump. I’d like to jump. I’d like to die. 

Tony thinks of Rhodey. He’s been wanting peace for a long time. Tony once orchestrated world peace. Rhodey once tried to orchestrate his own death. Different kinds of people, different kinds of peace. Tony is worried for Steve Rogers.

* * *

  
  


Tony and the Avengers aren’t close at all, in truth. The Avengers are a ghost team. That is, they’re a one time thing. Thor’s gone, no one expected him to care, and Banner doesn’t care either. Romanoff is on a long mission in the Ukraine and Barton and Rogers are a team, not quite a friendly one. Fury sometimes invites Tony to those briefings. This time, they were in Alaska, posing as brothers wanting to kick back on their land and do whatever the fuck they wanted with it. Tony sits back, chewing on his pen to listen. Barton recounts the mission, not Rogers. There’s a brief thought- why? Isn’t he experienced? Didn’t he lead the mission? It doesn’t matter once Barton starts, the Captain’s incompetence.

‘So we shot the deer- twice. They liked that.’ Barton laughs, not mean. Rogers is wound tight already, intense blue eyes staring at the table like it held answers. The deer comes up and his spring launches. He’s no longer just staring at the table, he’s gripping it. It’s bulletproof glass, or else it would be cracking. 

‘She was pregnant,’ Rogers adds. It doesn’t seem necessary to add that there would be a baby with spots, fluffy and gangly, if the deer had a few more weeks. Tony marks the fact down. 

‘Yeah, they were proud because of that. It was a lot more informal than the intel you gave us, Fury. They were radical and cultish, but not to the level you predicted. Most of our time was spent shooting innocent animals,’ he laughs. ‘But in all seriousness, they weren’t particularly organized. We took care of most of them.’ 

Tony hums, writing a note. Casualties were high on this mission. ‘Are we done?’ Rogers asks, chair scraping back and voice deep. Tony studies his face. A super soldier shouldn’t have wrinkle lines, it’s against their DNA. Rogers looks at him, frowning deeply. He raises an eyebrow. 

‘Are we, Fury?’ Tony asks, cocking his head. 

‘Sufficient information for now,’ Fury says, nodding at the door. ‘I expect your reports by tomorrow evening.’

Tony doesn’t know Rogers. He didn’t realize that he was the kind of man to feel bad about baby deer or stay silent when needed to summarize the mission. There’s a feeling, an itch, below his muscles, that tells him to find out more. He has to quicken his pace up to catch up, ignoring the lingering voice of Tiberius laughing uproariously at his stubby legs. There’s someone he’d not like to emulate. 

‘Rogers?’

Reluctantly, Steve twists to see Tony and nods shortly. ‘Stark.’ There’s a smudge of blood beneath his eye. 

Tony pulls him into a room off to the side with a few chairs and sits him down. He looks serious, now, alert. From the tired soldier to the always-ready one. ‘Is something wrong, Stark?’ He’s remembering the Mandarin, probably. 

Tony isn’t gentle, but he’s trying his hardest to look understanding. ‘Have you been doing okay lately?’ he asks. 

Steve is caught off guard, mouth parting. He frowns- this kindness doesn’t compute. ‘I’m well.’ It’s cordial. 

It means nothing. 

Tony learned this trick all on his own. You press someone and give them an ear, say out loud that you notice them, and they’ll spill out on you. Tony likes those splashing emotions, they make him feel real. He’s lost in his head most of the time, puzzling out logic and equations; sometimes he forgets how fumbling he is when it comes to emotions. It’s a reminder to look deeper into himself, as he stares intently at Steve’s murky, harrowed blue eyes. 

‘I know what this job does to you.’ His voice is quiet and serious for once. ‘Are you really okay?’ Tony, when he was cocksure and drunk most of the time, loved getting those questions from Rhodey. Selfish prick that he was, he’d never returned the favor. Look how that’d turned out. Rhodey, that _fucking_ \- 

Steve is staring at the wall, back straighter than a pole. He looks like a statue, and for once, Tony second guesses himself. But he sags, spine suddenly broken and slumped; looks around anxiously. ‘I don’t know,’ he says quietly. ‘Would you… understand?’ he asks timidly. 

‘Whatever you need,’ Tony whispers. He leans closer. 

Steve’s big. A big guy. But his battleship shoulders are sinking, his cannon hands are twisting nervously, the gun he calls a mouth is open with a _desperate_ need to speak. ‘I just-’ He sounds so secretive. He’s scared. ‘I just can’t feel anything, but… but I feel so bad. Like my bones are empty. I don’t exist. Not _really_ .’

  
  
He turns his eyes skyward. They are wet.

  
  
Does he do this often? Look to God to fix his jumbled mess? ‘I just feel so scared? I want- I hate being here.’ Tony snatches his hand and squeezes down. 

‘I know someone who’s been where you are, okay, Rogers?’ 

‘Steve.’ His voice is quiet and it sounds small. Steve is a big guy, but his Captain voice is never there anymore. 

‘I know this,’ Tony repeats. His hands itch to grab Steve and hold him where no one can touch him. Where he can’t shatter. It always begins like this. Virginia, no nickname, chewing her lip and tapping him on the shoulder when she should have been dragging him by the ear. Jamie, lanky and overeager, who’d been too shy to talk to Tony for their first month of being roommates. Tony, once people meet him, has an uncanny ability to bring out the confidence. It hasn't worked on Steve yet. 'I know where you've been.'

‘You- you know someone who’s all torn up inside, huh? Nice going, Stark, you’ve found me out.’ He’s a little too hysterical. 

Tony shifts in his seat, glancing at the door. ‘Rogers- Steve. Steve, baby-’ His head whips at Tony, fidgeting more frantic by the second, at the pet name- ‘I know people all torn up inside. I’ve lived torn up, I’ve bled it. Honey,’ he says, blowing out an exhale. ‘I’ve seen your carbon copy standing with his demons or whatever, kay? Baby, you’ve got to trust me,’ he says softly, moving closer. 

There is still a marked space between them. 

Steve scratches at his forehead, blood from under his fingernails flaking off. ‘So, what, you’re going to come visit me in SHIELD medical while they’re doing surgery?’ he asks coldly. 

Tony smiles the slightest bit; wry. ‘I was thinking you’d come live with me, actually.’ Big, deep breath as Steve gathers himself together. 

‘You know what, I don’t even care,’ he says. ‘I have business out here, okay?’ The door knocks open as the agitation pours off of Steve. Even at his most shallow, Tony is still going to be oil to Steve’s water. ‘I have to go.’ 

The door slams shut after him. Tony squeezes his eyes shut. ‘Steve, pretty darling, the offer’s going to be open as long as it takes for you to accept.’ If the super hearing stretches out this far, Steve will eventually call. He will.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello there is a trigger warning for this chapter for claustrophobia... idk Steve gets hurt a lot so if you want to skip that part just skip the paragraph where it says "Steve made it succeed." so much thanks for my friend who betaed this for me ✨✨ she isn't even a fangirl, let alone in this fandom so it's super kind of her to do this for me.

There was a boy in Tony’s graduating class at MIT who was always scared. Of his own shadow, they used to joke. He was small in the worst way, smart as fuck, and Tony stayed away. He couldn’t deal with the similarity. The only difference between them, he felt, was that Tony was a better actor. 

He feels like that a lot, now, with Steve. Tony is sad, or panicky, or exhausted, any given day, but Steve is more exaggerated than that. He wrecks. Tony’s the one in the metal suit, faster than any car, more fragile than anyone predicted when he first began, but Steve is the one with crunching ribs, screams of pain in the surgery room. 

There’s no working anaesthetic for him yet. The first time it happened, Steve refused any treatment, wild eyed with badly broken ribs. Tony hadn’t known, the first time it happened, either. Now, he hears that Steve’s back from his special ops missions and rushes to his side. It’s the same every time. 

Steve has no family. They’re dead. Romanoff and Barton couldn’t care less, and Sam Wilson is helping Steve by being a constant reminder that someone is looking out for Bucky. He’s gone. 

Steve has no one waiting in the hospital lobby. Lonely, and gutted, and  _ awake _ .

Tony’s been the man on the table before, screaming into a cloth and wishing the restraints would rip so he could curl up on the floor, and it’s the least he can do to hold Steve’s hand and promise him that it’s ending soon. Plastic crinkles everywhere, on the operating table itself and on the surgeon’s gown. The room is a noise machine. 

‘Suction.’ 

Steve lost his voice about five minutes ago. Tony continues to pet his hair back, rub the streaks of blood from his hairline. He has the cowl in the lobby for safekeeping, an Iron Man suit standing sentry there. Steve is a living tragedy, sadness wrapped in soft skin. ‘Shh. Steve, darling, breathe with me.’

Steve wouldn’t stop panicking until Tony was there, clutching his hand. It’s the only reason he’s in the operating room, standing vigil. Things like this are not allowed, but anaesthetic doesn’t work on Steve. He needs this. ‘It’s just a flesh wound,’ he promises. ‘It’ll be over soon.’ 

His ribs are crushed. Steve is a wreck of bones and muscle. If Tony was the kind of man who believed in God, he would pray for Steve. He thinks he might do it anyway.

Every time Steve gets back, Tony falls in a little deeper. Spaced a month apart, these hospital visits begin to be something he worries for. It’s been forever since he’d had a conversation that wasn’t groggy with pain. So it goes.

* * *

‘What’re you doing?’ Steve murmurs groggily, blinking his eyes open. His limbs flail for a moment, before Tony lunges for his hand, stroking it. Steve slowly stops thrashing, making a low noise of pain. 

‘Easy,’ he says. ‘Easy.’    
  


Steve keeps looking around, bleary and terrified, but he slowly relaxes. ‘What happened?’ he asks, his voice raw. 

‘You almost got yourself killed,’ Tony says bluntly. Steve’s eyes soften, go dull. 

‘Oh.’ His voice is wooden as he turns away, bandages rustling against the plastic sheets. 

‘Steve, you’ve gotta stop doing this.’ Steve’s blond hair glints like a halo in the early morning light. He hates his hospital room at SHIELD, so Tony’s made up this nice one for him. If he’s going to get himself killed every week, he’ll at least do it in comfort.    
  


Steve is a hero; a weapon. He needs good upkeep to continue functioning. ‘Steve, how are you feeling?’ Dr. Pinker asks, stepping into the room, sweeping her eyes across the scene. Tony’s used to being the most fashionable in the room, but his suit is rumpled and she’s wearing patent leather pumps, hair done up. Not this time. 

‘I’m fine. What happened? Did the mission succeed?’ 

Steve  _ made _ it succeed. He crawled through the tunnels a couple prisoners had made trying to escape the high-security Russian prison. Tunnels made of dirt and mud, more claustrophobic than a skinny hallway, with no fear, files clutched in his mouth. Gravel rocks bouncing down on his legs, keeping his shoulders narrow so he didn’t knock down the wall. Part of it had caved in on his chest, and he just kept crawling, dragging his shattered ribs along with him. ‘It succeeded, Steve,’ Tony tells him dully. 

‘Let’s get you checked out,’ the doctor says, approaching closer. There are neat x-rays with these medical details, but Steve gets better so fast that they change by the hour. Gets better, that’s a funny way of putting it when Steve has never once been okay since Tony met him. 

Steve forces a smile. ‘Right.’ 

Tony holds his hand for this, too, and then until Steve falls asleep again. 

* * *

The lucid moments are scattered. A bowl of soup there, a moody, stormy night where Steve draws and Tony reads, and 2:00 in the morning on a Wednesday. 

Tony’s asleep on his own floor when Jarvis’ soft voice interrupts his dreaming.’Sir,’ he says. ‘Captain Rogers is awake.’

‘Is he?” Tony mumbles, pulling on a dressing gown. ‘Well, let’s get him, then.’

He’s still in recovery from the worst one yet. Two days after the anniversary of the Chitauri attack, Steve was retrieving vital information about an insurgent group in Russia when he’d- he’d slipped and fallen, of all things, down a sheet of rocks and ice. There was no way to tell how long he’d been unconscious, but he’d returned home with nasty, bleeding gashes on his face from the rocks and more sinister injuries from a feral dog, bad pneumonia and the last pretend bits of innocence that everyone knew were just for show.They were reaching a June without Captain America. Fury was getting antsy. 

And Tony? Tony couldn’t care less about the pristine,  _ shitty _ little jumpdrive of precious intel when it meant that Steve- who he’d grown to like, through nights of noddle soup and stormy nights and melancholy mornings and hands clutching together in the surgical suite that Tony had memorized- is hurt. He doesn't make the rules though. 

When he reaches the room, Steve is picking his cuticles raw. Constant fidgeting, twisting at his fingers, scratches moving up his arms. ‘Heard you were up, big guy,’ Tony says softly. 

Steve faces him, pretending to smile. There’s a seat next to the bed that Tony always uses, soft and worn, since he spends so much time in it. The lights flick on. ‘Did I do it?’ Steve asks, voice blurred and confused. It’s remarkable, the way he acts when he’s wounded. Sluggishly bleeding gashes up his side, voice raspy with leftover screaming, and a whole mask over his face. 

‘You did it,’ Tony confirms. ‘Does anything hurt? Should I call in the nurse?’ 

Steve shrugs. ‘S fine.’ 

‘Okay, then. Is there anything else you want? Anything I could do to make you more comfortable?’ Tony straightens the sheet, as if he’s tucking Steve in. 

‘No.’ Steve’s blue eyes flicker out the window. Blue- the only real color in the room, though Tony could be colorblind and still see the deep azure there. ‘How long’s it been?’ he asked, voice rough. 

‘Just a day since you woke up last.’ Tony reclined on the chair, glancing out the window too. There’s nothing there. Just more city lights. ‘The other day,’ he begins. ‘I was working in my office, the downstairs one, and I looked out the window- see, there's this building below me, just a smidge lower than the floor my office is on, and I saw a little bird’s nest. Felt very New York.’

‘Babies?’ 

‘Yeah,’ Tony says, watching for the quiet smile on Steve’s face. He looks… pleased. 

‘That’s nice. Sam’ll be mad if he hears about the damn pigeons breeding, but. It’s nice that you have something to look at.’

Tony agrees, sitting back. ‘I’m serious, Steve. I can get you tea? Hot cocoa? Something spiked, maybe?’ he teases. 

‘Whatever you’re having.’ He’s off again, in his own little world. Looking out the window or at the floor, anywhere but Tony. 

The sounds of Tony’s bare feet on the wooden floor provide a familiar backdrop while he walks to the kitchen. Tea, though he thinks it tastes like dirty water, has been Steve’s favorite in the past. He has to guess, which frustrates him, beyond belief. If Steve could just  _ tell _ him what he liked, what hurt the most and what helped, Tony could do something about his misery. Instead, it feels like all of their relationship is based upon decisions Tony’s made and things that other people have done to Steve. 

The kettle whistles. It’s hot to the touch. Tony chooses chamomile, for sleeping and shit, with honey. He hates tea, yeah, but chamomile is the least detestable. It’ll serve his purpose; getting Steve to rest up. Tony won’t be sleeping. He wanders back to Steve’s room, slivers of light passing him by until he reaches the wooden door. 

‘Steve, I brought-’ 

He’s already asleep, curled into his side. It’s somewhat surprising how big he is. Even in sleep, his muscles are bulging at the seams. Just by looking, you can tell… you can tell that he’s strong. 

_ I love you _ . He thinks, every single time this happens, that he’ll finally get the courage to say the words. Every time, Steve’s eyes flutter closed and he weakly turns in his sleep and Tony stays silent.

* * *

Sam Wilson is a perfect soul. Tony’s never seen anything like it. He spends time with all of the Avengers, he’s bright, and he’s holding on. Tony is tempted to gift him the world for how Steve gets a little brighter around him.    
  


Sun Steve comes out in August. In July he’s dark at home, spending his time anxiously twisted up. Barton is partnered with Romanoff on another mission and they don’t care anyway, there are voids between each of the Avengers where bonds would be, never filled, never realized. Tony and Steve do stick together in their special way, though. Steve is always hurt on missions. He is faulty, the way rusty nails break easily and flowers become dry from drought. He comes home with injuries, no exceptions, refuses treatment unless Tony is there to hold his hand. Shot bloody, a throbbing head wound, a smashed foot and a punctured lung. Steve’s hurts pile up. 

He grew quiet during that summer.

It takes a week or two of healing, and like a miracle, he leaves again. He’s split between war and a special guest bedroom Tony made for him, a comfortable mattress with all the right wires and tubes to make him whole again. But the way he keeps getting hurt, Tony is tempted to say that Steve is never whole. 

Steve tells him about his dreams. He dreams of escape, of leaving it all behind. Paris, maybe, or Alaska. A secluded island, away from it all. He’s smart enough to know that he’ll be trapped no matter where he goes. The responsibility Steve has never just goes away. He can’t leave, he won’t be able to hold himself together alone. Fury is stubborn, he will find Steve. Like a prize horse, Steve will only retire when he can’t race anymore. Tony can see where he tries, again and again, to take himself out of the running.

Steve is the one with the magic in his blood, but Sam Wilson is the real miracle. Sam Wilson searching for Bucky Barnes gives Steve a reason to come home. ‘Did you find him?’ Steve asks, during a barbecue. He looks nervous, gaunt.

Everyone else is having beer, but Tony prefers scotch. He’s the appropriate distance from Steve, as always. There has to be a gap between them or people will talk. The air smells nice- they’re having ribs- and Pepper’s perfume is a faint shadow out of the corner of his eye. ‘We’re close,’ Sam promises, smile faltering. 

Tony some how doubts that they are close. He stands up to speak with Pepper. ‘I need him back, you hear? I can’t do this knowing that he’s somewhere out there… lost, and he can’t remember anything. What if he’s cold?’ Steve asks urgently. Tony wants to tell him that it will be okay, but he’s never made very many promises, especially ones he can’t keep. 

‘How are you, Pepper?’ He’s been busy, but her smile crinkles anyway. 

‘Busy.’ He shares a commiserating look. ‘But haven’t we all been? I swear, you’re never even at the offices anymore.’ 

‘Half my time is spent looking after Steve when he’s hurt,’ Tony says. ‘To be frank, I worry when he’s on a mission, and I worry when he’s at home and hurt. No time to rest.’

She laughs. ‘You’ve always been one for little ducklings. Is Jim going to be in town soon?’ 

He shrugs. ‘Rhodey’s got his own thing right now. I’m keeping tabs on him, so if anything happens, I’ll know.’ 

‘Good. I worry too, you know,’ she says with a frown. ‘I feel like I’ve known him since I was seventeen, too.’ 

Tony laughs. ‘Trust me, you’d have a lot more dubiously legal anecdotes if you’d known Rhodey when he was a kid. You’d have loved him.’ He grins. 

‘Yeah?’ she asks. He nods. 

‘Definitely. We were a duo, that’s for sure. Now it’s you and me, though, Potts.’ She smiles out of the corner of his eye. 

‘I’ll hold down the fort at your company and you go be a superhero, okay? We’re a team.’ He squeezes her hand fondly. 

Across the park, Steve looks at him, eyes wide like moons. He looks sick, and pale, and hollow. He is healing from a concussion and burns on his left shoulder and back. He hates these parties, but he’d never yet looked so scared of them. 

‘You own that cabin, you know. If you want to take him out of the line of fire, you could go there.’ Pepper is staring at Steve, too. He can feel her concern. He likes that she cares about his friends. The two of them can sit as close as they want.

  
  


To butter Steve up, Tony drives them in a solid, normal car, but he barely notices, too engrossed in a mystery novel. He has to be getting a stiff neck, Tony thinks, bending his head to read his book like that. Tony’s eyes drift back to the road and the noonday sun. It’s gorgeous out.

Eventually, they pass through the forest. The highway is smooth and a dream for their little SUV. Steve watches out the window, and Tony is just getting the courage up to say something in when he goes straight back to his book. The car has bucket seats, not bench. Nothing of theirs is touching, Steve is far away, lost in whatever cheap trash the book is.

‘We’re here,’ he announces. Steve looks up, face stitched up the side and eyes exhausted. Tony wants him to be  _ okay _ , is that too much to ask? 

‘Oh. Thank you.’ If Steve were a boat, he would be a sailboat, without wind, laden with cannons. Every time he looks at Steve, a knife twists in his heart. He keeps getting hurt. He never stops. Steve is large, but it only makes him a bigger target. 

He needs to press the good into Steve, fill him with happiness, and then he might stop with all the bullet holes. ‘This is going to be great!’ he says cheerfully, ushering Steve into the quiet cabin. It’s sunny, afternoon delight weather, and the fridge is stocked. Scotch and limeade. 

‘Where’s my bedroom?’ Steve asks, carrying his comically small bag through the door. 

‘Only one bed,’ Tony replies, using a nice chamomile soap to wash up. His hands are all sweaty from driving. ‘I’m on the couch.’

Steve frowns deeply. ‘Sure, if you want to break your back. I’ll sleep on the couch.’ He sets the bag down and sinks into the couch. 

‘Yeah, it’s big but not  _ that  _ big. I’m five inches shorter than you, Steve, this is forcing me to admit it, and that’s five extra inches of space. You’re going to be falling off. Take the bed, it’s no big deal. You’re healing.’ 

Steve narrows his eyes. ‘We’ll share it.’ Tony smiles at him. 

‘As long as you don’t bring a girl home. You know that Rhodey did that once?’ Tony asks, sitting next to Steve on the couch and crossing his legs. There’s no invisible barrier, they can sit as close as they want. ‘Into our bed. He’s always blaming me for our threesomes, but I swear. He’s a deviant.’

‘You- you had  _ sex _ with your best friend?’ Steve asks. 

‘Don’t loook so appalled, darling, we were young and dumb,’ Tony laughs. Steve relaxes, still shaking his head at the scandal of it all. 

‘I’d never do that with Buck.’ Steve has a funny look on his face.

‘I know.’

  
  


* * *

  
  


That night, in pajama pants and no top, Steve pretends to sleep. He’s not a very good actor, he isn’t the type. There’s no obvious snoring, but Tony can spot it a mile away. ‘Steve, is something wrong?’ He sounds level. Coulson, a distant memory, would be approving. The best way to approach an injured person is slow and delicate. Steve is a tank, built to be the target, the bow, and the arrow. 

He’s an injured man, too, from his premature birth to his last scarred burn on display. Shirt off, third degree burns bubbling over his shoulder as they heal. Tony can’t get over it. ‘Is something wrong?’ he repeats.

‘No.’ He sounds rough, desolate. Memories echo between the wires strung up in Tony’s chest.  _ My bones feel empty _ .

‘Really? It sounds like something’s wrong,’ Tony points out. 

‘Nothing is wrong.’ Steve sounds all sharp and prickly. 

‘Okay, well, if you’re not asleep, then I’m not asleep either. Want to get up?’ Tony doesn’t even finish asking before he’s standing up, crossing the room to get his dressing gown. It’s draped over the side of a deep brown wooden chair. Earlier, the sun had been walking itself through the room, casting skinny shadows along the bed and the cream-colored carpet. The windows are big, full length up the wall, and offer the prettiest view of the night. 

He looks back at Steve, who is clinging to the softest blankets money can buy, awfully vulnerable. He looks scared, nervous like a first-day kindergartner that has no idea what to expect.

_ I’ll be yours _ , Tony thinks.  _ I’ll be your guide, here _ . 

‘What are you doing?’ Steve asks as Tony pads across the room, holding out a thick, red sweater. ‘I told you, nothing is wrong.’

Tony looks out the large windows again, to the stars sprinkled just about everywhere. ‘The night’s wasting itself, Steve, darling. Come on.’ Steve kicks the blankets off, the cuff of his pajamas slipping up to reveal a shy ankle. Steve will show Tony his scars, but not the rest of his body. 

‘Where are we going?’ he asks, scrubbing a hand through his hair. Tony smiles, a spring in his step. 

‘Don’t turn on the lights,’ he reminds Steve, knowing that a glaring brightness is all it takes to drag the magic away. ‘Can you get me a bowl?’ 

Steve is a little more even footed, in step with Tony. He rifles through a drawer, getting out the shiny golden one as Tony searches for champagne he knows is in his cabinets somewhere. ‘Here.’ Steve is at his back, a little curious now. 

‘And champagne flutes, too,’ Tony says, finally pulling the bottle down from its shelf. He peels away the golden foil, crumpling it in his hand, and opens the wine with a loud pop, spilling sparkles all over his hand. The droplets of champagne on the floor glisten, and he steps over them to get to Steve. 

‘I don’t usually like alcohol,’ he reminds Tony.

‘You’ve been deprived of good wine for too long, Steve,’ Tony replies without missing a beat. When he looks up from pouring two glasses, Steve is  _ smiling _ . His usual earnest smile isn’t real, Tony suddenly knows, in the dim starlight spreading over the floor. 

This one, hopeful and almost peaceful, is. ‘I hope so. I’m starting to feel left out at parties.’ 

There’s a tiny little deck, weeds poking out through the planks and ivy winding up the columns, outside their door. ‘That’s not the alcohol, Steve. You’re too rigid for those places. Us socialites have very loose morals.’ 

‘I have loose morals,’ Steve says indignantly. Tony shoots him a quelling look, because they both know that the only backbone Steve has, at times, is the one that his mother taught him when it was time to give alms at church. His morals are his compass. He’d not survive without them.

‘We both know that’s a lie,’ Tony laughs, grasping Steve’s elbow and leading him out to the little deck. Steve glances around and sips at the bubbly. Neither of them need shoes, walking out into the soft grass. ‘The bowl?’ Tony asks, knocking back a good half of his flute. 

‘What are we doing?’ Steve asks, drinking more champagne. He’s not quite so tentative, this time. Tony likes to see him this way, living life as if he’s actually inside the atmosphere and not some distant satellite orbiting around the past. 

They walk over to the groups of brambles at the edge of the lawn. There’s no caretaker for this home; there are berries underfoot. Tony likes the wildness of it, he wants to share it with Steve. ‘Blackberry season,’ he tells Steve, smiling slightly. Twilight twists through the leaves. 

‘Are they safe?’ 

Yes, Mr. Boy Scout, they’re fine. I’ve eaten them before, and I’m fine, aren’t I?’ Tony rolls his eyes, drinking the last of his champagne. ‘Silly goose,’ he laughs. ‘Here, here, here, start picking. I’ll make pancakes in the morning. Are you going to finish that?’ He swallows Steve’s champagne, too, sighing in satisfaction. 

‘Careful, there, mister, you’re already loose enough.’ 

‘Don’t you want me pliant?’ Tony volleys back, shaking his hips a little and chuckling. ‘Just get the ripe ones.’ The ripe ones are nice and juicy, practically endless. They don’t even have to venture through the prickles to get to the fruit, it’s so plentiful. Tony eats a couple and enjoys them a little too much. ‘Get me some more champagne?’ he calls, loud enough for Steve to hear but not so loud that he’ll break the extraordinary night. 

‘Coming right up.’ Steve finally looks tired enough that he’ll sleep easy. 

‘We can call it a night after,’ Tony promises, wandering back, across the lawn, to set their bowl down. It’s full, spilling over. Steve comes back out, holding out the flute for Tony. They sit in idle silence for a while, there’s really no need to speak. 

After all, Tony thinks bitterly, he spends most of his time at Steve’s sick bed, watching him cycle through blood into bandages. Not much time for chatting.

Somewhere in his worried thoughts, he tips the line from tipsy to drunk. Steve is smiling out at the stars, red flush around his hairline. He’s pretty. Gorgeous, really. Tony took Rhodey to Greece once, for a quickie vacation. The waves there were prettier than he’d ever seen, not that he appreciated it at the time, and Steve’s eyes remind him. Steve could be gone soon.

‘I love you, Steve,’ Tony says without thinking. He’s just finished the last of the champagne and things feel good. It feels right. 

Steve laughs, burying his face into Tony’s hair. He’s thought of a funny joke and forgotten to say it loud again. That sort of thing happens a lot. ‘In  _ my  _ day, if we told someone we  _ loved _ them, we meant it in a real special way,’ he laughs. His smile is full.

It is twilight; in the absence of the sun, Steve’s rosy cheeks fill the world with all the light it needs. ‘Maybe I do mean it like that,’ Tony says. He means it wistfully. 

He means it truthfully.

Steve freezes at his side, looking at Tony with a question in his eyes. They sit silent.  _ What have I done? _ Steve is a sweet soul, a soft one, Tony’s always meant to keep that tucked away. He’s always tried to be a good friend. The bubbly happiness of the champagne is wearing off. ‘Tony.’ Steve frowns. ‘This can’t…’ 

Tony turns to him, reaching out to put delicate fingers on his chin and drift closer. ‘I love  _ you _ , and if you try to tell me you don’t exist one more time, Steve, I don’t know how I’m going to keep going. This can be as real as you want it to be. This is happening, if you haven’t seen it. We’re real.’ 

Steve presses forward to kiss him, hand tangled in Tony’s brown hair. His blue eyes are shiny and warm. ‘I love you.’ He sounds punched out, breathless. 

Tony makes every word count, they won’t be talking much more after this. ‘I love you, too.’ 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The months that follow their perfect time at Tony's cabin are futile, desperate things without any respite from Captain America's never-ending responsibilities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is filler. 
> 
> also, quick note: steve is catholic, he's got internalized homophobia lite, and the relationship itself is like.... not great right now. character growth is, uh, coming.

They took separate cars coming home from their getaway, to feign distance, and Steve had decided he’d up and leave for a mission to find Barnes, without telling Tony, without even stopping to mention to Jarvis where he was going. ‘Where’s Steve, J?’ he’d asked, like a fool. 

And Jarvis had told him Steve left. ‘Most likely for some sort of mission, based on what he has brought along,’ Jarvis had told him stiffly. Tony had closed his eyes, exhausted. He’d done this dance before, unlucky as he was. ‘He left something behind,’ Jarvis had told him, too. 

It was a note, in the beautiful cursive Steve’s education had hammered into him. Tony never stayed in a single class long enough to get that same kind of practiced cursive, but his mother had made him write things out, over and over, until he was just as practiced. 

_ Tony, urgent business about Winter Soldier. See you when I get back.  _

And in smaller handwriting, almost shyly, there’s another addendum:

_ Thank you .  _

And Tony can’t be mad at that, could he? Beneath the note, there is a pair of dog tags, relics from World War II. A couple of forlorn tears make themselves known on Tony’s face. He wipes them off. It’s only that he already misses having Steve in his arms. That warmth was something special.

* * *

If you know Steve Rogers, you can run your fingers over his dog tags and remember him whenever, Tony learns. Love isn’t a fix, it means nothing at all when your love is about 90 miles south of the Russian border with Georgia. Tony thinks,  _ perhaps he’ll come back injured _ . 

Steve left the ice with his dog tags, and now he leaves them with Tony. SHIELD doesn’t use them. First is his name, then his serial number- there’s supposed to be a space for immunization information, but all it has is a printed word. Rebirth. He has AB blood type. Beneath that is next of kin, his Bucky Barnes. Tony lists his next of kin sometimes, James Rhodes. When needed, it’s always James Rhodes. 

His fingers hold fast to the tags as he gets dressed. Sharp gray pinstripes, a blue tie. Beneath that is the address Bucky used to have, then Steve’s address. Steve doesn’t have an address anymore, not really. If anything, he lives at the Tower. He deserves a house. At the bottom line, there’s a letter. C for Catholic. 

Steve prays every night, knelt by the ground. Tony once walked in on him, tears streaking down his face.  _ Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee.  _

Steve sings hymns, too, so beautiful Tony once cried. There is usually one or two days where Steve can walk, a few days between a medically induced coma and a mission. He sings and tries to cook. Cries when the cooking fails. Jarvis flashes a light on and off to get his attention. ‘Yes, J?’

‘You have a visitor,’ Jarvis says smoothly. Tony isn’t expecting anyone, but he waves his hand to let them in. They pause in the doorway; the only people important to get his full, immediate attention, are in warzones. He thinks, frowning, of where the intel says that Rhodey is stationed. 

‘What?’ he asks the guest eventually, raising his manicured eyebrow and poking at a piece of paper. ‘Why do you think it’s necessary to interrupt me while I’m working?’ he asks, chilly. 

There, from the doorway, there are footsteps and then a careful voice. ‘I- I’m home.’ Tony almost falls over himself to look back at where Steve is standing, shield slung over his hunched shoulders.

‘What? What? What do you mean, you’re home?’ Tony stands up, mouth open. Now he feels bad, he’s going to start treating unexpected visitors gently.

He sets the shield down with a thunk. ‘I mean, I’m home,’ he calls again. No bite, no sadness. He’s home. Suddenly, Tony’s eyes go wide. 

‘Jesus fucking Christ, Steve!’ Tony yells, and he’s slapping the table and he’s dropping anything he’s holding and he’s rushing to Steve’s side. ‘You go straight to medical after missions, okay? Or I’m out! God, what happened this time?’ he asks worriedly, sliding Steve’s arm over his shoulders. ‘Is there a broken bone? Burns? Fuck,’ he says, biting back a pained noise. It’s worrying, the levels of injury Steve-

‘Nothing happened,’ he says quietly. ‘I don’t have any injuries.’    
  
Tony blinks. ‘Oh. That’s good, then.’ He smiles in relief, leaning forward to press his lips to Steve’s. ‘That never happens. What changed this time? Excited to get back to me?’ 

‘I get a two day break before I have to leave again,’ Steve tells him stiffly. ‘So.’

‘Hey.’ Tony catches his soft lips in a kiss. ‘We can make the best of it if you like.’ 

‘Volunteer at the homeless shelter.’ Steve backs away, stripping off his uniform. Top half naked, just like that. Tony laughs a little, wiggling the zipper on the front where it’s caught on Steve’s chest hair. 

‘Hey,’ he says, tilting his neck for a kiss. 

‘Hey,’ Steve mutters; raw. And he presses in, bare chest plastered against Tony’s smaller one, staggering a little and kissing like it’s all he has. He doesn’t let up, sucking in Tony’s gasping breaths and getting weaker, if the weight Tony’s suddenly supporting means anything.    
  
At some point, Steve stops kissing his lips and presses their cheeks together, eyes closed. A holy experience. And then he slumps to the floor, face pressed against the jut of Tony’s hipbones. Tony sinks his hands into blond, straw-like hair that is thick with grease and sweat, because Steve, for some reason, likes to be surrounded, overwhelmed with every good feeling, after missions end. Tony’s his last defense against the world. 

Tony believes Steve when he says he isn’t hurt, or he believes that Jarvis would have told him if he’d been lying. He’s on his knees because he can’t handle standing up straight. Tony drags him to bed and tucks him in and walks back to the lab. 

  
  


* * *

Day one is remembering the specific way Steve fits with him. Tony stands on his tiptoes and whispers sweet nothings in Steve’s ear. He blushes to the roots, smiles freely, and for a moment, there’s this hope that everything will turn out all right. 

Tony agrees to take Steve to the beach, if they put on the appropriate disguises. It’s a fair bit too indulgent to take the day off, but the enigma of Steve still needs solving.  _ You can’t solve a person _ , he remembers Pepper arguing. Even if it takes forever and always, Tony would really like to be there, probing at whatever makes Steve tick. First, they need to stop at the grocery store for snacks. 

‘Should we get coke or something fancier?’ Steve asks, frowning at the refrigerated display case. Tony takes the liberty of pulling out two green glass bottles. Steve blinks at the cold air, momentarily displaced, before tagging along to the next aisle. 

‘You brought your swimsuit, right?’ Tony hums, looking over the top of his sunglasses. They have a deal on ice cream. 

‘I brought my swimsuit, my sunglasses, sunscreen.’

‘Perfect. I think this is all we need,’ Tony checks, hauling the cart to a cashier. 

‘Going to the beach?’

‘That’s right,’ Tony replies, credit card out and ready. ‘What gave it away?’

‘You’re wearing swim trunks,’ he says, snorting. Tony shrugs. He’s right, after all. 

They ride with every window down, end up windswept after they get to the parking lot four hours or so away. ‘This is going to be so relaxing, darling, you will love it,’ Tony promises, leading Steve with one hand on his bicep to the beach. 

‘It’s been forever,’ Steve murmurs, tipping his face into the sun. A slow smile spreads on Tony’s face. 

They sprint to the water together, wearing those ugly swimming shirts to disguise their scars, diving beneath the waves. Steve comes up sputtering, searching for Tony. ‘This is warmer than I thought it would be,’ Tony shouts, Steve splashing over to him and stopping short a foot away. 

‘I think a crab pinched my toe.’

‘That sucks for you. Want to hold hands?’ 

Steve frowns deeply, severely, so Tony leaves it be. Does it make him sad? Of course it does. But he is never, ever in the mood for sensationalized tabloids and overdramatic phone calls from Pepper, for Steve burrowing into his shell again after something is released that questions his morals. They’re untouchable, of course, but as with all things Steve, they are also fragile. To be handled with care. 

They sit apart and Steve tells Tony a little bit about his mom in this voice; real quiet, sort of scared, and so, so longing. Tony tries not to think about how she’s been dead since 1938 and Steve has not seen her in some seventy five years, and he contributes his own anecdotes, gentled down, about his father and Jarvis in the earliest years of his childhood. The jets they built from the ground up, the ones they strapped Tony into for the maiden voyage. Usually to Italy. His dad had liked Italy. 

The beach day ends, one dollar flip flops abandoned in the trash, and Steve leaves for another mission, which is already uneasy enough, and Tony crosses his fingers that everything is going to be okay. 

Hell, and then Steve comes back in an emergency vehicle- might as well be a coffin, for how many times they’ve needed to shock him back to life. And Tony knows that it will never,  _ ever _ be that easy. 

* * *

Tony’s job is to escort Rhodey home, since he has no living family. ‘What are you going to do this leave?’ he asks, grinning at his friend. Military homecomings are always fun, always an experience nostalgic of every single time Rhodey’s gotten leave and come home to Tony.    
  


‘Whatever you have planned,’ Rhodey replies. Tony grimaces, knowing he’s dropped the ball this time. ‘What, Tony? Do you have nothing planned?’

‘Well.’ Rhodey frowns, there must be a hitch to his voice. ‘I’ve been busier lately. Really, really busy. Exhausted.’

Rhodey stacks his bag on top of a bag of groceries Tony has in the car. He moves them to the side, there are eggs in there. ‘Where should we go for lunch?’ he asks. 

Tony shrugs, patting at his hip for his phone. Jarvis buzzed him- maybe Steve’s awake? He won’t be coherent quite yet, but Tony could at least make sure his window’s open the way he likes it, and he has his hot lemon water in case his throat is still sore from the surgery. ‘Tony.’ Rhodey snaps his fingers in front of Tony’s voice, chuckling. ‘Who’s got you whipped, huh?’ 

‘No one,’ Tony replies immediately. Steve’s made very clear the fact that he will not be in love while he’s around other people. ‘How about this place?’ he asks, screeching into a spot. 

Rhodey is nice enough to drop it. 

They walk inside, and it ends up being a fifties diner, of all things. Tony laughs a little, sitting at a table. Their waitress is named Grant, and he recommends the burger, so of course they have to get  _ that _ , and then go look at the novelty soda bar, and finally settle down at the table with a large plate of fries. ‘Do you want to go somewhere fun, then? I’m hoping nothing will be cut short, but I want to make the most of this one. I’m surprised I got leave at all, you know how the Air Force are dicks.’

‘I do, honeybear.’ Tony thinks of Steve. He can’t very well leave him, so there has to be enough of allure to New York that he’ll stick around. 

‘Are you okay?’ Tony’s head is a little spacey, but Rhodey’s kindness is enough of an excuse to smile. 

Tony glances around and leans in to talk in low voices. ‘I feel bad, you know, that we can’t go out. Truth is, I’m actually taking care of Cap right now. He got beat to hell on a mission recently- and you understand this is top secret, okay?- so I’m housing him at the Tower.’

‘Captain America?’ Tony nods, already expecting the teasing. ‘Goddamn, Tones, you’re moving up in the world. I can meet him? Or is he in some sort of ICU? Fuck, I feel bad for the guy. It’s nice that you’re doing this. Medical in a building where Fury works, or, God, I wouldn’t be surprised if he  _ lived _ there, must be a trip.’

‘Oh, it is. I can confirm. He’d probably like to meet you. With the serum, he heals up really quickly. It isn’t as bad this time, so I’d say give it a day or two and he’ll be up and running again.’ Tony’s lips draw into a worried frown and he picks at the fries. They’re hot to the touch. Tony hopes he’ll be up soon. He thinks about having Steve back in his bed, safe and sound, all the damn time. 

‘Does this happen often?’ Rhodey asks.

Tony snorts. ‘It’s our routine. Steve almost dies and I come pick up the pieces. He has his own suite.’ Tony becomes quiet. ‘I try my best, he doesn’t- he’s not well.’ These are the bullshitting kinds of phrases he always used about his mom, Christ. Rhodey lets it slide because he was there for the mommy issues bullshit and he knows exactly who Tony is. He’s lucky to have James Rhodes as a friend. 

* * *

‘Help,’ Steve rasps, while his eyes are still closed, frantically feeling around for Tony’s hands. At the time that it happens, Tony isn’t sitting lovingly at his bedside, but instead, dining with Rhodey. Jarvis bypasses everything and projects it on a hologram right above the table. 

Before anything else happens, Tony is gone. ‘Steve?’ he asks quickly, flying into the room. 

Steve’s eyes open and he smiles, blearily. ‘Tony,’ he mumbles again. 

‘Hey, big guy. We’re going to get you all checked out, okay? Anything hurt, sweetheart?’ Steve shrugs, still out of it. He’s pale as a sheet and Tony can tell that there’s no way he’ll be coherent for at least another hour. He turns his cheek into Tony’s hand, pressing against him like a cat. 

There are pale scars crisscrossing his neck, striping down to plunge into the hospital gown and mark up his sides and shoulders. His hand is hot, too hot, to the touch, and so is the cheek laying alabaster and all too thin, in Tony’s hands. ‘Bucky,’ he says. His throat  _ does _ sound sore. Tony will get Doctor Pinker to take a look.

‘I’ve got you, okay? You sit tight, honey. Jarvis? Could you get the doctor for us?’

‘Certainly, sir,’ Jarvis replies. 

Back in the day, at MIT, Jarvis was just a twinkle in Tony’s eye. He’ll have to bring on the nostalgia with Rhodey, later. Maybe he’ll want to meet Steve. He probably will, just because he’s a fanboy. Once Steve’s feeling more up to pretending he’s the character, Tony will get them paired up. 

‘Oh. I guess he’s pulled a me.’ There, leaning in the doorway, stood Rhodey, staring at Steve with an odd look on his face. He’d always had unusually pretty eyes, this alluring dark brown that seemed to get past you before you even noticed they were searching for something to fix. He had to be remembering all of the times he’d been in some hospital bed, injuries and missions never seeming to go to plan. God.  _ God _ . Tony is so, so glad that Rhodey’s alive.

‘He doesn’t look anything like you, come on, Rhodes,’ Tony says, nudging him. Rhodey lays his head on Tony’s shoulder, even though he’s an embarrassing bit taller. ‘Actually, I was hoping you’d talk to him.’ 

‘I can try.’ Steve stirs again. ‘You take care of this one, too, Tony.’

‘You got it, platypus. I don’t think Dr. Pinker wants me in the room right now. We can finish our meal.’ Tony coaxes him away from the room. He knows how captivating it is to see him in bed, to watch the muscles knit back together. As the clock turns, every inch means something is getting better. 

‘Yeah.’ Rhodey takes another look at the hospital bed. The room is an interesting play on contrasts. He has fancy sheets, navy blue, and a matching comforter, but the walls are stark white and Steve is so pale. There are too many shadows to count. 

‘Excuse me?’ Dr. Pinker hurries through, smiling perfunctorily and grabbing the chart. 

‘We should go,’ Tony tells Rhodey, taking one last look behind him. 

  
  


* * *

There’s no previous information that would tell Tony Steve was gonna be this  _ jealous _ . 

It’s Rhodey, he’s used to having Tony toppling over drunk on him- hell, he’s used to toppling over with Tony- and this time, the two of them are just standing close together. Again, though, it’s Rhodey, so close together is essentially plastered on top of each other. Normally, Tony will blame it on the wine and cite the fact that Rhodey’s straighter than an arrow, so he does that now, too.    
  
Across the room, Steve’s eyes are guarded and jealous. It feels delightful to know that something makes an impact in the way Steve is always the same. Resigned, heartbroken, grieving, sad, drawn in… nothing has changed since the day he moved in and his personality split apart, sheddinglike water to leave space for the tears. ‘You know, over there, that’s Thor,’ Tony says. 

Rhodey’s face twists quizzically. Tony might not be drunk, but he sure is. ‘What the fuck is he doing here, then? What an oddball. It’s-’ He stumbles over and Tony catches him so he doesn’t break his damn nose again- ‘fuckin’ weird. He’s an alien. But he… is blond.’ 

‘Yeah,’ Tony replies, raising his eyebrows at the trashed Colonel who apparently saw fit to leave his propriety at the door. ‘And that’s the weirdest thing about him, too.’ 

‘You’re a weirdo,’ Rhodey says, a little slurred. Tony loops his arm over his shoulders. 

‘Let’s get you to bed, okay, babe?’ Rhodey nods, conspicuously winking at Natasha Romanoff. 

‘Hey, wait, let’s,’ he hiccups, steering Tony around. ‘Let’s go say hi to her.’ What are all these Avengers even doing at his party? He didn’t think he was friends with any of them, especially not Snaketasha Rushmanoff. Well, maybe Tony was a little drunk if he was thinking of nicknames so mediocre. 

‘Why don’t you go say hi to Natasha? I’m sure she’d love your company.’ That is Steve. Steve Rogers, handsome and true. Noble as a white steed flying into battle. His voice is a little husky, but Tony is a little too tipsy to remember those ramifications, right about now. 

‘I’ll go,’ Rhodey says, pushing off into a confident stride. He does the sober walk well, he’s had years of practice after knowing Tony. 

‘Hey, handsome, you jealous?’ Tony asks, smiling with a charming, rakish eyebrow raised. 

‘Why don’t we go to your room?’ Steve asks, face pinched. That’s not right. 

Steve needs… he needs to be happy. Not pinchy. ‘No, no, no, sweetheart,’ Tony says, reaching up to stroke away the wrinkles on Steve’s cheeks. It doesn’t quite work; Steve is out of his element, after all, taking care of Tony instead of the other way ‘round. 

‘Tony, is this the right place?’ Tony takes his hands away, suddenly regretful. The room is getting quieter, and now he feels a bit more serious again. He’d only wanted to have fun. He wanted a night to himself, letting loose from whatever shitshow his life is spiraling into. It was Pepper leaving that started this path. Not Pepper leaving Tony, but her leaving New York for sunnier Malibu. It isn’t right that he’s handling things alone. 

‘I love you, Steve,’ Tony says, pulling his hands away. Steve is trying his very best, but Tony has still ended his night like  _ this _ . They both look lost. They’re not touching, which is frustration in and of itself, that Steve is forcing this removedness onto Tony. Tony cannot stand being bare of the hot hands resting on his back, or the loose knuckles bumping against his shoulder, the hips that are close enough to knock together. 

‘Don’t say that here,’ Steve says too harshly, eyes flitting across the party. Banner and Barton are fuck knows where, so much for a team, and the rest of the party is Rhodey’s buddies. 

‘Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do,’ Tony snaps back. ‘What, you can’t bear to feel emotions unless someone’s sobbing away at your sickbed?’ 

Steve flinches. ‘I was being jealous. I- I shouldn’t have, and I…’

‘Save it,’ Tony says, shaking his head. His aimless thoughts are awful today. From jealousy to Steve to Rhodey to Steve again, and now they’re back to jealousy. He has experience with that one. ‘If you’re jealous, just hold me. Come on! We can dance,’ he says, always finding the optimism. Steve glances around again, stepping in to guide Tony to a darker corner. 

It’s a step. And carefree nights are few and far between. Tony lazily winks, stepping in so he can lead. Knowing Steve, he’s got two left feet, so he’ll need it. Hell, he probably likes it, not having to take control for one goddamn minute. ‘We’re not supposed-’

‘Now, lovely,’ Tony says, stroking Steve’s cheek, but this time he is fully conscious and his eyes are dark in the low lights and it is so much better. ‘I don’t think you are one to ever do what you are supposed to.’ 

Steve smiles, a true smile again, crooked and somehow old fashioned. How smiles have changed in the past seventy years, Tony is not sure, but Steve’s is certainly more special than even Rhodeybear’s. ‘Got that right.’ He’s really flushed, blushing like a virgin, but here he is, dancing anyway. How fantastic is a night like this, Tony thinks, moving in a little closer to take certain liberties. He strokes his hands past Steve’s chest and rests them on his shoulders, then smiles, like he’s the only sparkling star in the night sky.

* * *

It’s so much easier to be like this in private. With Pepper, God did he love Pepper, he was courteous. Sometimes possessive and hot for her. He brought her places and they smiled for the cameras. They’ve never been anything but public, and maybe in private, they’d share a kiss and feel soft for the briefest moment. 

Steve is soft all of the time, alone with Tony. There’s no separation, parsing out the difficulties of which parts to share and which ones to keep. There isn’t guardedness. There’s no need to be, the only one who will see Tony is Steve, and Steve isn’t open to the rest of the world in the slightest. In the real world, there are some things you just can’t speak about. In Tony’s arms, Steve is tender. He can say anything. The rest of the world is a secret barred from their honesty. 

‘I hate this,’ Steve says quietly, trembling a little on the edge of their bed. ‘I hate this body.’ 

Tony’s eyes go wide and soft; he leans to hug Steve to his chest, scratchy beard pressed to his forehead. ‘What do you mean?’ 

Steve leans back, blue eyes far away. They’re pretty, though, always gorgeous. Tony’s seen them with burst blood vessels, swimming in bloody tears, the shade of a Grecian ocean. ‘I hate being a weapon.’ 

Tony can’t do anything about that problem. His chest hurts as he gathers Steve into his lap, crushed to his side. The comforter is the green of the forest they stayed in that week, sunlight staining their memories joyful. ‘You’re not a weapon to me, Steve,’ he whispers, laying a kiss high on his cheekbone. To the rest of the world, he’s point and shoot, or a shield from bloody political warfare.    
  
All Tony can promise is he’ll dig deep. He’ll reach past the thick skin and help hold his tender, frayed heartstrings. ‘I don’t want to kill people.’ Tony remembers being there, being a quiet little boy. ‘I don’t like the way they treat me, Rumlow, and- and the other parts of the strike team. It makes me want to go home.’ 

Tony swallows, throat thick. Steve’s blue eyes flutter; look down at where their feet lay. Fury sends Steve out no matter what. ‘I’ll always be waiting for you here, then, darling.’ 

‘He was talking about the most offensive stuff the other day. Dames and their virtue. None of his damn business,’ Steve spits. 

It sends a shiver down Tony’s spine. It’s nice to know that Steve can still be raging, he’s unsettlingly blank if you look for too long. ‘You can say that again,’ Tony says. ‘He doesn’t talk about me, does he?’

Steve glares. ‘He talks about everyone. About Natasha, and Bucky, you, of course. I know Colonel Rhodes doesn’t care about that kind of thing, but Rumlow makes it his personal mission to talk shit about superheroes. Keeps talking about how the War must have been so interesting,’ Steve says. ‘It’s all bluster, but I think the both of us can agree how goddamned disrespectful that is.’

‘He’s a nerd about that, or is he the grown up version of the kid that wants to join the Army so he can kill people?’ Tony replies. Yeah, he knows the type. 

Steve cocks his head. ‘I’m not sure. All I know is he’s awful about it. Probing for details,’ he huffs. ‘Yeah, if he wants to know about- about.’ Steve’s voice cracks. 

‘Shh, honey, honey,’ Tony says, leaning his shoulder onto Steve’s wounded shoulder. He shudders a little and holds Tony by the waist. 

‘It’s from decades ago. Shouldn’t be crying about it now. Goddamn HYDRA.’

Tony is close to tears, himself. He doesn’t  _ like _ what has happened to Steve. Sometimes, he thinks that he’d probably shut himself up with duct tape and gauze and dangerous things if he were Steve. How many years has it been since his mother died? That was the beginning of the end, for Captain America. Before he was even Captain America, he was already on his way to lost. ‘Cry all you want, Steve. God knows you have a good reason.’

‘I miss my ma,’ he whispers. 

‘Steve, dear, you should. You deserve that.’ 

He tries out many nicknames, but the only one that sticks behind, holding fast to his sense of sentimentality, is dear. Steve is very dear to him, sweet; soft. His mother, when in a good mood, called Howard Stark dear. 

* * *

He cries a lot when they are alone. Tony will look at him and have an instant reminder of loss, and sadness, regret. Steve cries  _ a lot _ . He keeps his locket, his compass, the bloody suits he’s risked flesh wounds in. A row of them in the closet. Tony wants to throw them away but he never does. Steve risks his own mind for sentimentality. He’s in a drought of love. 

Tony will contentedly love on him all of the time. ‘Good morning, love.’ He smiles playfully, kissing Steve on the neck. Steve has the bible in front of him- he’s too shy to speak with any of the priests at his parish, so he always ends up studying on his own- and tips his head back to press his soft lips to Tony’s. God, when did he become so fond? He likes that he knows about Steve’s little hang-ups with church. 

‘Wait!’ Steve bounds up, smiling eagerly. Tony looks at him, indulging the childishness in both of them. ‘I bought those waffle things, I thought we could try them out.’

Suddenly, Tony’s chest hurts. Eggos, he wants to say. They’re called eggos, and they don’t seem exciting to anyone anymore. No one except for Steve, hunting through Tony’s freezer. ‘I’ll get the syrup.’ He turns around, smiling brokenly at the neatly organized pantry. 

‘Here.’ Steve taps him on the shoulder, handing him the syrup. ‘Are you okay?’ 

  
Tony sighs, plastering himself to Steve’s front. Steve delicately runs his hand over Tony’s hair. ‘Just fine. Peckish,’ he says. Who’s mercurial now? Still Steve. 

The toaster pops up, and gingerly, Steve turns around. ‘Well, this’ll be perfect. The serving size for a normal human is two flapjacks, the rest are for me.’ Tony doesn’t bother with telling him that he’ll eat more than that. 

Tony grabs some plates. ‘Sounds perfect.’

‘Can I- I’ll pray.’ Steve says a quick prayer, eyes focused on the six eggos in front of him. 

Praying over a breakfast of toaster waffles. Tony digs straight in, ignoring the low murmur of Steve’s voice. He swallows down another mouthful of coffee, staring in front of him.  _ Pathetic _ , rumbles the cruel voice in his head, as he looks at Steve- Steve, who’s pretending that he isn’t hurt and still goes to church, Steve, who’s skittish and shy, suicidal.

Steve drowns the waffles in butter and syrup, eating them quick. ‘I’m going for a run,’ he says, voice small. 

Tony nods. ‘You told me.’ 

‘Oh, when we woke up.’ Steve’s smile is anxious. 

He eats the rest of the waffles and disappointment is clear on his face. Four packages of  _ toaster waffles _ probably wouldn’t be enough for a supersoldier. He takes it valiantly, though, and forces a smile. ‘Guess I better get going.’ 

‘Steve?’ 

‘Yeah?’ Steve turns back to him, ruffling a hand through his hair and smiling sweetly. 

‘Make sure no one sees you.’ Pepper would flip, or demand a press release, and almost anyone can be accessed by the tabloids. Tony wants their quiet affair to live unseen, beneath the waves. 

‘Course.’ Steve smiles like he wants to cry. Ugly. 

He comes back with coffee, which Tony already knows. He’s kept an eye on the video feeds in case he needs to warn him about a reporter. Instead, he catches Steve picking up two coffees. 

Steve undercover is more adorable than Tony expected. He walks up to the cafe outside of Stark Tower and nods to the barista, grabbing a to go coffee. His eyes are blocked by large sunglasses, but his blonde hair is loose and pretty, catching the light. He has this awkwardness around him, he keeps bumping into other people and apologizing. 

Tony’s in his lab, watching the live video of this bumbling, gorgeous man sneak up to meet him for the afternoon. He’s moved to the elevators, home safe. Tony walks up to the elevator, coffee mug in hand, and moves straight in for the kiss. Steve melts when he does. ‘Morning, beautiful,’ Tony purrs, catching one hand in Steve’s rumpled white button down and moving in closer.

‘Morning. Tony.’ There he is, Captain Awkward strikes again. 

‘Thank you for the coffee. I have my own, but you know me. Always a glutton for these things,’ he says brightly. 

‘Are you doing anything important?’ Steve narrows his eyes, looking around the circular lab. 

  
  
Tony raises his eyebrows and leans in. ‘Why, should I be? Are you trying to get me to do something with you? Coffee? Movie? Jarvis, make some popcorn!’

‘Yes, sir.’ 

Steve relaxes, gathering Tony up in his arms for a big hug. Tony can feel the hesitance in every movement, his arms are too light. Steve never gives the right hugs and this is why, he can’t let go of Captain America for a second. The hug isn’t going to last quite long enough. That shield is a goddamn disease. 


	4. Chapter 4

Tony wakes one night, one night when Steve is home and healthy. Around a quarter of his missions end with no injury, by now. This past one didn’t. He’s playing hooky, though, lying to Fury and saying he needs another few days to heal up. Fury asks too much of Steve, in Tony’s opinion.

People ask more of Steve than he can give them. They don’t seem to realize that the imagery is not real. Tony takes on more than he can handle, but he’s determined about it. People ask everything of Steve, of Captain America. They don’t realize that he isn’t truly fleshed out, the way a character should be. Tony’s read the Cap comics, he’s loved those comics, but inside of them, Steve was smart. Tactical, strong, sure of himself. 

  
  
People- almost anyone, in fact- thinks that Steve is sure of his cause, has a constant strategic goal in mind, and will never hesitate to jump up and fight. They don’t understand how dehumanizing it is to be a hero. They never will. There is substance to Steve, but never enough. Captain America isn’t Santa, he’s repressed, and nearly suicidal, and he hurts all of the time. 

The shield is supposed to protect Captain America, but Steve  _ is  _ the shield. He just stands in front and takes the hits, jammed to the bones with bullets. Well, he isn’t shot more than once, this time. Tony walks out onto the windy deck, shivering slightly. As he gets closer, he sees that Steve has been crying. A virgin in a white dressing gown, wind whipping through his hair, red faced with sobs. 

Steve isn’t in bed, not right then. ‘J?’ 

‘Captain Rogers appears to be out on the deck,’ Jarvis replies quietly. Tony sneaks out of their bedroom, padding up the stairs to the balcony outside of the penthouse.

There is Steve, dark reflections stealing the light away from his face. Tony walks closer, nearly missing the way Steve leans forward. His breath catches. 

Steve can sail like a bird through the air, but this will kill him. Tony sees the wounds on him, faded scars. A twisted knife beneath his armpit. His shoulders are ground down. Sad. ‘Steve.’ 

Steve looks back, his hair catching a fragment of light before it goes straight back to faded brown. ‘Tony, I-’ He backs up, against the railing. ‘Sorry, the bed is probably getting cold.’ He forces a laugh. 

Tony walks closer. ‘Do you need something, Steve?’ His voice is husky, trying to pull Steve back into his current and never let go. They belong together. 

‘Nothing...’ Steve looks back behind him, down the sheer wall of the building. Tony catches his fingers and squeezes his hand. ‘Nothing. I don’t need anything.’

‘Steve, if you ever need a reason, I- I’m right here.’ Steve finally steps away from the edge. Tony shrugs, self deprecating. ‘I’m here.’

‘I love you,’ he breathes, and kisses Tony softly, on the lips. 

It’s a  _ distraction _ .

  
  


* * *

They find a new house, only three bedrooms, on a little boulevard in Brooklyn. The kitchen is laden with light. They’re clandestine, secretive, never dirty. The bedroom they use is not the biggest one, not the smallest, either. It is one floor and the roof is low enough that there’s no chance of death by jumping. 

Tony tries to make it comfortable. Steve is reckless, he could take a step too far, and he needs a home to come back to. 

‘What is this?’ Steve shouts through the walls. Tony looks up from his own cardboard box, the one with Steve’s old clothes, and cocks his head. 

‘What? What is it?’ he asks, getting to his feet and stretching his fingers to the ceiling. 

‘You tell me!’ Tony raises his eyebrows and moves into the living room. It’s at the front of the house, so the bay window faces in and he can see the trees outside framing the house across the street. Above their row of homes are the skyscrapers and clouds. It would make a pretty picture. 

‘Have you drawn our street yet?’ he asks, eyes passing over the flowers planted in the beds that go up to the walk. 

‘I can do that if you want,’ Steve tells him. Tony nods his approval, casting his eyes across the room again. They have- it’s a welcome mat, of all things. Tony’s never had one of those. He’s never had a welcome mat, or anything less than five bedrooms, he’s never had a kitchen where the appliances are well-used. ‘What is this, though?’

Tony peers at the book. It’s a leather monstrosity. The first page reveals baby pictures. ‘It’s a photo album!’ 

‘You were cute as a baby.’ There Tony is, at his christening, a couple of him with his mom, and then Jarvis. 

Little red overalls and chubby cheeks. He doesn’t remember that far back, but he has a feeling that Jarvis called them playclothes. He looks younger in these pictures. Less weathered. Tony drifts to the side, paging through some more pages with a faint smile on his face. See, this is why Tony is unpacking Steve’s boxes and Steve is unpacking Tony’s. The minute they’re in the same room, alone, they’re so sentimental that a weak wind would bowl them over. They signed on the house a couple days ago, and everything has been a sort of melted, indulgent perfection since. Time doesn’t exist. 

Pepper sends him work, but he’s told her that he’s doing an in-depth review of Iron Man safety features that’s critical to his personal security, so she’s laid off. Steve’s been off of work for a week. They went shopping for a nice couch they could squish into together, and a couple lamps for the bedside table, plus the aviation room. It’s just the spare bedroom they’ve converted into a home lab for Tony, mostly for show. Model airplanes he’d made with Rhodey at college, a desk that looks like the outside of an airplane- he’s a nerd, that’s why he bought it on impulse, and a big, cozy chair for Steve to fall asleep in after finishing his Harlequin novel.

‘I better get back to unpacking all your stuff,’ Tony tells Steve, handing the album back. ‘Put it in place of pride on my bookshelf?’ 

‘Sure, Tony.’ he’s going to leave again; soon, Tony’s fairly sure, but that’s  _ fine _ . Tony’s going to have to leave the house, so as not to arouse suspicion, and go back to being lonely at the Tower. 

It’s like Steve’s spread to him. He still has only one real friend, even when it’s a year and a half since he’s woken up. The loneliness has spread to Tony. He hasn’t seen Rhodey in forever. 

* * *

‘I’m home,’ Steve announces, hanging up his scarf. He looks quintessentially All-American winter, bundled up like he is. The floors creak as he walks to the kitchen. They never did that back at the Tower. 

Tony’s sweater is rolled up his forearms and he’s frowning at the newspaper in his hands. Damn Steve Rogers, that he’s gotten Tony to read print newspaper and like it. ‘Welcome home,’ he calls, checking his texts. Pepper has left a message. Ross, too. 

He hears Steve stop at the doorway to the living room. Tony saunters over, leaning in to press a gentle, open mouthed kiss to Steve’s cheek. ‘Do you want to go out tonight?’ he whispers into the soft skin of Steve’s ear. There’s a slow shiver running through Steve’s body that presses him into Tony. 

‘Where?’ Steve tips his head back languidly, almost content. 

‘I don’t know. Park? Restaurant? I could fly in sushi from somewhere,’ he says lazily, waving his hand about. 

‘Park,’ Steve says with a smile. You’d be tempted to believe it’s real, but no. Tony wants to crack one of those rare smiles, like it’s a diamond he’s studiously polishing. 

‘Okay,’ he says, poking around for his gloves and tucking his keys into his pocket. Steve is close behind.

Tony is hard pressed to say what his favorite part about the house is. He adores living with Steve. One of his best friends, plus sex, plus free food if he feels up to cooking, everything he could imagine if he’d thought of the  _ very _ distant future when he was seventeen. 

Steve’s walking towards the door. There’s something underneath his movements, a certain weight to his body. Tony can’t really imagine living without him. 

They get the extra large coats and Tony wears a sweater vest to really ensure that no one thinks that it’s them. Tony Stark, after all, would never wear a sweater vest. ‘I love you, darling, but you really have to be quicker with these things,’ Tony teases.    
  


‘Sorry.’ Steve smiles self deprecatingly. When Tony tries to grab his hand, he rips it away. 

Tony rolls his eyes. These hang-ups are so exhausting to work around. They take one umbrella to share and walk out. It’s sleeting more than raining, asphalt shining beneath their feet. ‘I think they’re going to try and overturn the Registration Act in full,’ Steve says. 

It’s a source of worry for him. Personally, Tony doesn’t see the big deal. Steve’s problems are many, it’s really only an extra one. ‘Let’s not talk politics,’ he says, clenching his hand to keep from trying to grab Steve’s. He just wants to hold on. Never let go. 

Steve’s smile is a string of diamonds, flashing when the light hits him just right. Tony is hopeful for the next Avengers meeting, he plans to reveal something special. ‘You know, thanks for taking me out. Fresh air always does you good, doesn’t it? Weather’s looking fine.’

‘It hailed yesterday,’ Tony replies, eyebrows raised. 

‘Like I said, weather’s nice. When I was a kid, well, I hadta have been 15 or so, it went sub-zero for half the day. That was the year we set records all willy nilly, I think. It got to one hundred something and it dropped to the negatives a whole lot.’

‘You have experience with this, then. How do you feel about air-conditioning?’    
  
Steve snorts. ‘Damn miracle. I- oh.’

‘What?’ Steve’s eyes are turned into the rain, but he doesn’t blink. Tony’s heart begins to pound, and he looks around.

‘That can’t be- It’s still here?’ he asks faintly. There’s a brick building nestled among the skyscrapers. It doesn’t look like much. 

‘Steve-’ He reaches out, and  _ grips Tony’s hand _ .

‘Bucky used to live there. Sixth- sixth floor.’ Steve turns away, stumbling on one of his legs, and shakes his head, keeping his eyes straight forward. He makes a quiet noisee, looking back again. ‘Sorry. It just looks so- it looks different.’ 

* * *

  
  


The two of them are a pretty affair, tangled together every night. There’s a sweet little house in Brooklyn Tony promises to Steve. Brambles clog his heart every time he thinks of taking it any further, but eventually, he summons the courage. The night is sneaking through the rest of the house, and there’s only one lamp on. 

‘You’re my favorite,’ Tony whispers, suddenly. 

‘What?’ Steve scrambles to ask. ‘You like me best?’ He looks tentatively happy, can’t-quite-believe-it smile on his cheeks. 

Steve’s face is so sweet. He is earnest and lovely. He wants to be Tony’s favorite. 

But favorite isn’t what he meant. Tony falters a little. ‘Well, you’re my favorite supersoldier,’ he offers. Steve’s light snuffs itself out, shoulders sagging. Tony knows that he’s said the wrong thing, and his heart sinks. 

Steve shoots up, face breaking. ‘Can’t I just be number one?’ he hisses. He’s never like this. Tony is almost frightened. ‘No one ever- It’s the worst part of the future,’ he says, voice choked like a sob. ‘I’m never going to be someone’s favorite again,’ he says, pressing against the wall of the room. Tony is left stricken in their bed, staring at the silhouette through the frosted glass of the bathroom.

He has known Rhodey since he was sixteen. Pepper’s been his favorite person since they kissed that one evening. He thinks Steve is selfish for expecting to replace him, but then his bottom drops out, watching him hold back manful tears on the floor. Steve’s Rhodey is brainwashed, missing. Steve’s Pepper never grew past one kiss. Steve’s team used to be his family, and his team now has ignored when he is bleeding out. Tony is the one holding his hand, he’s the glimpse of warmth in an otherwise dark life. 

‘I won’t choose, Steve,’ he says, crawling off the bed and grasping for Steve’s hollow eggshell face. ‘But I love you.’ Steve shudders, once. Sobs twice. 

They sit in the winding, dark quiet together. There’s such a sense of frustration for the fact that Tony cannot say the right thing. What does Steve want? Before, Tony thought that they might like to get married. Now, he doesn’t know. 

* * *

‘Sometimes I just can’t get up,’ Steve tells him, garbled from when he bit his tongue to stop screaming. Now, it’s hard for him to talk. 

Tony’s breath catches. They’ve had this same kind of conversation half a million times. He doesn’t get bored of it, but it does begin to weigh on him, tipping the scales like Steve is Jupiter on one side and he is just the moon. ‘I know,’ he replies. 

‘S too hard,’ Steve murmurs, clenching his hand as what must be a spike of pain shoots through his body. Tony takes a breath, so,  _ so  _ exhausted of this circle. He isn’t sure how to feel. ‘I just, it, it’s like I’m not on the tracks right. I’m not moving right. I’m scared.’ 

‘I’m scared, too,’ Tony whispers into his hair. ‘Can we- Steve, can you let me tell people about us? Then my friends are your friends. You like Rhodey, didn’t you? You were jealous, but you liked him.’

‘No, Tony,’ Steve says, fisting the sheets in his hands. ‘You can’t. Promise me you won’t. No one can know. Bucky would be so-’ His words turn into a strangled cough, something that sounds ugly in his throat. 

Steve is feverish, when Tony lays a hand on his forehead. ‘Bucky would accept you eventually.’

‘But we still haven’t found him,’ Steve insists. He doesn’t seem to realize that his arms are shaking. 

‘You have to trust him, Steve,’ Tony whispers. ‘You have to trust that you are all he has. If he comes back, it is going to be to you. It’s going to be for you. You have to trust him.’ He sighs deeply, playing with a curling strand of hair that won’t move from Steve’s forehead. 

‘But Sam…’ Steve’s voice sounds red. ‘I can’t, Tony, you- what if people see? What if they know?’ 

‘It doesn’t matter about them. It matters about you and me,’ Tony tries to reassure him. Panic is threading through his thoughts, now, with how terrified Steve seems to be. Pepper would be disappointed that he’s taking advantage and Rhodey would get confused and the other members of the team, during their monthly meetings, would look at them and they wouldn’t congratulate them. Banner would probably use it as excuse to leave for somewhere that he doesn’t have to think about that old girlfriend of his- hell, he’s already in some country playing savior right now, unreachable. 

‘We can’t. Tony, we can’t.’

‘Don’t overstress yourself Steve, you’re hyperventilating!’

‘You can’t tell anyone, we have to be a secret!’ Steve repeats, voice ready. His neck is sweaty and clammy. 

Tony presses the button for the nurse. Steve looks at him in betrayal and shakes his head violently, throwing Tony’s hand off before anyone can see. It's all about appearances.

Tony stands and glares, folding his arms and leaning against the back wall once the nurse comes in and fusses over his temperature and his throat. Steve is frozen still, what he must have looked like coming out of the ice. He’s so… stoic when someone else is in the room. It’s frightening. But his eyes get scared and they dart to Tony, each time ripping away another piece of his heart. 


	5. Chapter 5

Destiny’s like a dirty word around Steve. He doesn’t like to think about the future. It’s part of the reason that Tony is the one running Avengers club get-togethers. They have a full house today- Barton and Romanoff lounging boredly in the back, while Steve sits with Banner, exchanging pleasantries about his time in Peru. Tony is glad to see Wilson, and there’s always Rhodey, the angel. He’s sitting straight, bristling at the fact that Tony is leading the meeting. 

But like he’s thought, time and again, Steve can barely get through his present. He’s not looking wildly to the future. He’s looking at Tony, like everyone else is. ‘I have a surprise for you all today,’ Tony tells them, smiling. 

‘Surprise? What is it, a new puppy?’ Barton laughs. Christ, he grates on the nerves. 

‘Well, you all know that the current headquarters of the Avengers is Stark Tower,’ Tony begins, still a little miffed that no one but Steve took up his invitation to stay there. ‘I’ve decided to move it.’ 

Steve’s eyebrows skyrocket. Tony can’t look at him when they’re on Avengers business for more than five consecutive seconds, otherwise it would give the precious secret away. Can’t hide away his smiles for too long. ‘Where?’ Sam asks. ‘Do I get a room?’

‘Yes! It has twelve bedrooms!’ Tony says, grinning like a maniac. ‘It’s called the Compound.’ Romanoff looks askance at him. ‘Here are some pictures, you are required to move in, I even talked to Fury about it.’ 

‘What? Man, this sucks. No more shitty- oh, Jesus Christ.’ Barton’s mouth drops open. It’s unfair to say Tony doesn’t peacock a bit, because he’s proud of it. It’s a modern day Versailles, replete with a fountain and sprawling gardens in the back. Flamingos, a nod to his childhood, mingle in the outdoors. The building itself is a modified Stark Industries warehouse, bulletproof glass windows and high tech additions that Pepper took care of. 

Rhodey unstraightens and leans in to hug Tony. ‘Nice, man. This is good-looking. There a room for me?’

‘There was a room for you at the Malibu house when we were eighteen,’ Tony tells him, frank. Steve’s deep blue eyes stare at the screen. 

Tony’s stomach seems to drop. What is it that Steve finds unappealing about the Compound? He looks at it with a critical eye. Perhaps it’s the fact that they will get less lazy mornings together. The house feels like a distant dream. It was never meant to be, of course, they both knew that. The cardboard boxes they moved in with are still stacked somewhere beneath the stairs. 

  
Being with Steve, living with him, around him, in him, is something he’ll miss. 

But Tony is giving him a new home, something they can share with the rest of the Avengers. For a split second, he feels guilty about the fact that he has sprung it onto everyone, ripped the rug out from under Steve. It’s a fleeting thought. 

* * *

Now that Steve is living in what Barton lovingly refers to as the Avengers frat house, they get even less time together. Tonight is a precious treasure. Tony kisses Steve on the side of his forehead, leaning back to roll onto one of the fluffy pillows. It’s been five weeks. Steve is gone, either at the Compound, forcing himself through drills and training with the rest of the team, or he is looking for Bucky.

Looking for Bucky. It’s beneath Tony’s notice, not something he follows closely. He does know this; they have moved from Thailand to Norway to South Africa to New Zealand, and from there they’ve visited three villages in Russia, but the ghost of Bucky Barnes still haunts the Winter Soldier, because he has scattered clues everywhere. He also knows this; yesterday, Steve came home and it was as if it had been weeks, not months, since he moved in. He’d had- burns, long ones, and the crinkle of plastic gloves snapping onto a surgeon’s hands, the same reassurances he says into Steve’s ears now. 

‘Glad you’re home. I’ll take good care of you until you have to go again, okay, honey?’ 

Steve looks at him, his face adrift in the currents pulling him every which way, sad and almost pleading for Tony to do something. ‘I have to go to Madrid tomorrow. For an Avengers mission.’

‘Oh.’ There is a long silence. Tony is normally the one that would break it. 

There’s a moment during the night, one where he wakes up, skin itchy and restless. He showers, as if it’ll fix it, and he looks at Steve’s soft, pretty skin, laying in the bed, cut up or burned. It’s as if he can’t bear it anymore. 

He checks his e-mail. Ross is still up, good. After a forty five minute call, Tony goes back to the bedroom. Leans against the doorway. 

He crawls back into the bed and stays there, arm flung over Steve’s broad, bare chest. 

* * *

  
  


Dawn stretches herself over them like a blanket. There’s a wound on the side of Steve’s neck, raw and inflamed, but he’s safe. Still in bed. ‘Good morning, Tony,’ he says sleepily, blinking over the curve of his shoulder to where Tony is trying to get out of bed. 

‘Good morning, Steve,’ Tony replies, kissing the patch of skin where Steve is clean and not injured. 

‘Where are you going?’ 

‘Meeting,’ Tony replies, shuffling through his collection of button downs. ‘Brooklyn is a bit farther away than Manhattan and I have to be at the Tower and eating breakfast before Pepper comes up to get me.’ 

Steve leans over and pulls the light’s chain, softening the edges of the room with a warm glow. The thing about affairs like this is that they don’t have much room for luxury. Steve’s begun to join Sam in the search for Barnes, this is the first time they’ve seen each other in five weeks. Tony brushes past him, hurrying to find his shoes. ‘I love you.’ Steve sounds husky, the back of his throat is still bloody and it hurts badly every time he speaks. 

Tony looks back at him; smiles. ‘I’ll see you next time I’m in town. I’m leaving to negotiate some documents. Have a nice time in Madrid. Keep them in line, will you?’ Tony frowns back at Steve, at the guilt-ridden face and the blanket that doesn’t quite cover his whole chest. 

The Avengers have been out of control lately. Tony’s handling it okay. 


	6. Chapter 6

‘Stark!’ Military men are all bluster, he thinks regretfully. Ross barrels in, beady eyes focused on one objective. 

‘Yes?’ he replies, straightening his lapels. 

‘I told you, you have three days.’ He meets Tony’s eyes.    
  
Maybe Ross is a bit of an unsympathetic character, their morals don’t tend to align, but Tony has no problem with cooperating this time. The Accords have been his goal for a long time. Three months, maybe four? All he needs now is signatures. ‘I know,’ Tony snaps, grabbing the heavy document. 

‘Wonderful,’ Ross says, spit flying out of his mouth. ‘It’s going to be nice to have some control over those damn heroes.’ 

‘Yeah.’ The lines of Tony’s outfit are crisp, the way he likes them. ‘How’s your daughter?’ 

‘Betty’s fine. Moping around. One of her boyfriends ran off again.’ Ross rolls his eyes. Tony checks his watch. He’s called a noon meeting, hoping to crowd the Accords in between their training and lunch. He might get a little pushback, but- he knows Steve is in no place to argue with damn near anything, he’s in that same messy place he’s always been. 

Ross exits. It’s just Tony on center stage. He needs to switch out his suit jacket, he’s put on the wrong one by mistake. He walks back to the bedroom he uses when he’s in the Compound, the empty one. Just a bed, a couple meaningless trinkets on the bookshelf. Stark white walls make the ceilings a thousand times higher. It’s beautiful in a distant way. He prefers the house Steve decorated. It’s a passing thought, he- he doesn’t think much about Steve when they aren’t together. 

Sam is sitting with Rhodey and Natasha on one side of the room, smiling about something Clint’s parroting off. Steve is dead center, still dusted with sweat. He looks up, first, when the door opens. Tony reaches out to welcome Rhodey with a hug, shakes hands with Natasha and Sam. ‘Nice to see you again.’ She smiles, glancing over to Clint. 

‘Hey, how are you doing, Rhodey? No one’s acting out?’ Tony asks while they wait for everyone to get settled. 

‘I’m fitting in, thanks.’ He rolls his eyes and bumps shoulders with Rhodey. 

‘Good to hear. It’s nice to be back with you all,’ he says, smiling. ‘To be frank, though, this is a business visit. After the recent disaster you three facilitated in Spain, I’ve sped up the Accords decision.’ Natasha’s head snaps up, she knows what he is talking about. 

‘Those documents? I thought you were taking your time with them,’ she says, frowning the slightest bit.

Tony shrugs. ‘Thirty four civilians died because of you. Plans change,’ he says coldly. He sees the anxious shift in Steve, the way his knuckles squeeze. ‘I’ve been working with Ross and the United Nations, as well as the World Security Council, to update the Mutant Registration Act.’ Steve flinches back the slightest bit when he hears the words, knowing that there is one person on this team who that Act affects, and that is him. ‘Just an agreement about what you’ll be allowed to do. An agreement between you and, what? 117 countries? It’s ratified by 117 countries and it’s to keep you under control.’ 

He hasn’t seen this as a problem. There are issues with the legislation, about reaction time, acceptable casualties, the bits slipped under the crack about vigilantes and most grievous of all, attempts to undermine mutant rights, but he hasn’t seen any problems at all, not major ones. Ross was the biggest one he’d been expecting, and the man has been a pleasure to work with. 

He hadn’t been expecting Steve to be a problem. But there he is, the inconvenient man that he is, eyes wide in horror. When he looks up at Tony, he is full of betrayal. Speechless betrayal. 

‘You have three days to sign.’ 

Outside the door to the conference room, there is a bench he sits down on. He needs to check in with Pepper, their PR needs a boost in case he and Steve don’t work it out. It’s only going to be a minor spat, but it pays to be prepared nevertheless. ‘Stark!’

He looks up when Steve barks his surname. ‘Rogers,’ he says evenly. 

‘What is… what is this?’ he asks, waving the papers. 

‘Just sign it,’ Tony says, rolling his eyes. ‘You’ll be fine.’

Steve, for once, looks like he has passion for something. There’s a fire underneath his skin. ‘Will I? Not sure that I can trust you on this one!’ he shouts. 

Tony raises his eyebrows, standing to his full height. The taller he gets, the more Steve seems to shrink. ‘This isn’t some kind of conspiracy, Rogers. Don’t throw a fit,’ he snaps. 

‘Don’t infantilize me, I make my own decisions!’ 

Tony advances on him, pushing his chest. Steve steps back like he’s been shot. ‘Either you sign, or you hide away like a little baby. Useless,’ he bites out. There’s a mounting dread in his stomach.

‘I told you, you don’t make my decisions for me!’ Steve shouts back. There’s a rattling noise at the back of his throat. Tony feels bad, but he knows this is for the best. ‘How long? How long have you been working on these, huh?’

‘Couple of months.’ Tony’s eyes narrow. 

‘The  _ Registration Act _ , Tony? Do you even know what that means to me?’

Tony’s jaw clenches. ‘I’m smarter than you, I know exactly what it is I’m doing. They’re fine. You’re being close minded about this. Infant-like,’ he says acerbically.

‘It’s not fine.’ Steve’s fists shake. Tony has never been the recipient of a Steve Rogers punch before, but maybe now is the time. ‘Because I’ve spoken with Ross before, and he’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing!’

Tony glares. ‘And you’re a bird with your wings clipped, Rogers, what’s your point?’

‘I can’t believe you went under my nose for this,’ Steve whispers. His eyes look wet around the edges. Christ. 

‘If you were smart enough to understand, I’d have consulted you,’ Tony drawls. ‘We’re finished.’ 

It holds two meanings. 

‘I sure hope you’re trying to negotiate something better, Stark, or else we are! You can bet I’ll never see your face again!’ Steve roars, the final word in their little spat. 

As Tony walks away, he begins to realize it isn’t so little. He’ll stop by tomorrow and see if he can’t get Rogers to look past his own dick for once and see the hundred and seventeen countries. 

Grimly, in the back of his mind, he thinks that it might not help at all. 

  
  


* * *

The Compound’s doors open automatically. Jarvis knows exactly where he’s going, where he knows Steve will be. But the gym is empty. Ghost-like. 

Rhodey collides with him as he turns around. ‘Tones? Oh. Oh fuck,’ he breathes. ‘You’re going to want to hear this from me. Clint and Sam aren’t signing the Accords, full stop. I think Rogers is holding out for some reason, like we can be reasoned with, but he’s not far behind. If it was just Rogers, we could bully him into it, but....’ Rhodey exhales, shaking his head. ‘It isn’t looking good.’

Tony’s eyes narrow. This isn’t good. Not at all. ‘I’ll talk to him,’ he says, voice edgy with anger. 

‘You’re doing okay?’ Rhodey asks, as they walk towards the living quarters. 

Tony shrugs. ‘As well as I can be. As soon as this is finished, I’m taking a tropical vacation.’ Rhodey laughs with him, and they reach the kitchen. 

The door feels like a window to another time. There are papers spread out all over the table, they’ve certainly studied the document, and there are a few spare guns out by the kitchen table. Maybe Steve took inspiration from his days as the top strategist against HYDRA. Tony steels himself and walks through the door. 

‘Stark.’ Barton doesn’t even acknowledge him, only stalks out. Tony looks at Sam, remembering the way he’d enjoyed the way his presence calmed Steve. A century ago, really. 

‘Wilson.’ Tony doesn’t bother to sit down. 

‘So what are you going to do to us if we don’t agree?’ he says, bluntly. Tony shrugs.

‘Whatever I have to. Either you sign or you give up. Lose your job. We aren’t playing games, Wilson, this is the big leagues. I swear to God, you had better do what I tell you.’

‘He thinks you’ve betrayed him, somehow,’ Wilson says quietly, coldly. ‘Imagine that! Your billionaire friend cares more about regulations than actual people, and you think he doesn’t care about you.’

He’s ready to go on, but Tony knows he’s not taking shit like this any day of the week. ‘Get ou. Get out of my damn compound, do you really think you can speak to me that way? The only reason you live here is because you’ve agreed to help Rogers find his damn friend. You’re the most expendable member of this team, Wilson, just laying around here and thinking it’s your  _ home _ . Get the fuck out.’

Wilson laughs hollowly. ‘Sure. Sure, if that’s what you want. Do you know what you are?’ 

‘What?’ Tony asks, looking into his eyes. He’s never seen them so hurt. He feels momentarily bad, awful, for pushing so hard. It’s for their own good. ‘Go on, what am I?’

‘You’re a cruel bastard, Tony Stark. Never thought I’d say it, but it’s true. The only reason Nat’s doing this is because she doesn’t want everyone to get torn apart.’

Tony smiles thinly. ‘If you feel so bad about that, go ahead and sign.’

‘I’m not condoning a violation of my friend’s rights!’ Sam slams his hands into Tony’s chest, but the repulsors already out, set to stun.

In the doorway, Steve gasps. ‘What’d you do to him?’ he bawled, stumbling over his feet. 

Tony can see the way the betrayals are adding up in his mind. These kinds of disagreements are a poison. He stalks forward, leaning over Steve’s face. He looks shattered. ‘What I had to.  _ Sign them _ .’

Beneath their stare down, Sam is unconscious on the floor, body curled the slightest bit. The anger is gone from his face, but Tony knows it will be there when he wakes up again. ‘Not while I’m alive! Get out, get out of our home!’ he cries, backing Tony towards the door. 

‘You think this is your home? Think again, this has always been  _ mine _ .’

‘We had one together, didn’t we?’ Steve’s voice is soft but mean. They’ve never said it aloud before, not here, at least. 

Tony’s eyes close. ‘Steve,’ he says. His voice is dull, and the words coming out next are not going to be fun for anyone. ‘All you have to do is sign. The accords are fine, as long as you get it through your goddamn head that this is better for everyone! Is there even anything up there, huh? Too many concussions made you lose your mind!’

‘I loved you.’ Past tense. Tony registers the horror in his eyes, horror at what he seems to think Tony has become, and they can both see Wilson waking up. Not much longer, now. Tony sees it breaking in front of his eyes. He can see the likely chain of events. Rogers refuses to sign, and he takes vindictive pleasure in the fact that he’s going to be the one to take him down. ‘I loved you,  _ that _ was when I lost my mind.’

It’s like he thinks of Tony as an injection of pure insanity. Like Tony is strychnine.

‘Steve,’ Wilson mumbles from the ground. 

Rogers approaches Tony and leans in. He looks hollow and his eyes are bloodshot. Good. ‘You’re dead to me.’

‘Get out while you can, you fucking coward! Or I’ll be forced to come after you,’ he hisses as he turns around. He pushes Rhodey’s arm off and flies off in the Iron Man suit.

* * *

There’s melancholy rain hitting the pavement outside when the news bursts forth. Tony is spending the night awake, waiting in vain for Rogers to come sign. He’s not going to; Tony knows this. Ross is almost scary, waiting eagerly for the second he can bring out the handcuffs and take Rogers into custody. 

Once upon a time, Tony wanted to keep Steve Rogers safe at all costs. The love doesn’t burn too much anymore, and the memories are faded. It hurts, but… Rogers brought it onto himself. He shouldn’t have acted the part of the hero without responsibility. 

‘You’re good to go,’ Ross says, teeth flashing as he looks down at his watch. ‘Take them down, bring them in.’

‘We gave them plenty of warning. They’ll be ready,’ Tony tells him, putting his coffee down. There’s a suit on its way, flying the couple of miles it takes. 

‘They don’t need to be in good condition, Stark,’ Ross laughs, sneering. ‘Rogers’ll heal anyway. We’re going to have fun with him,’ he promises. 

Tony only has a moment to wonder what that means before the suit rolls into the room and assembles across his shoulders. 

‘Sir-’ Why does Jarvis sound like that? ‘-the criminals are gathering on the lawn of the Compound. I believe they intend to access the underground Quinjet.’ Tony nods, blasting out the back door. 

He lands on the field, Rhodey right behind him. The ex-Avengers are gathered together. Steve looks over, and for some reason, he is absolutely terrified. Wide eyes. The shield sings through the air towards Tony, but the throw is absolutely appalling. Tony catches Steve’s only weapon and drops it, flipping into gear. 

The entire fight feels numb. First, they go for Wilson, air support is key. Tony watches Rhodey cleanly dismantle the wings and Wilson goes down just like that. Sailing to the ground. ‘Nice,’ he says, grinding his teeth as he maneuvers past a few arrows. Barton knows well enough that if even a small repulsor blast hits him, the gunpowder arrows will explode. Not an option. He has to get him hand to hand.

He sees Rogers sprinting beneath the terrace and blasts down a few pillars. The deafening noise as they land on the ground nearly swallow his scream of pain.

For an instant, Tony prays that God will never forget these sins. He’ll be damned for this, for forsaking this sweet sort of love. Steve was an angel, one he’d captured, and now one he’d lost. 

Arrows ping off the suit as he draws closer. He sees Barton’s face harden, even while he flinches at the noise, and the arrow draws back. Tony has a minute to panic before the EMP brings him down in what’s now a useless hunk of metal. Dirt is thrown up in an explosion just a moment later.

Tony watches through the slits for his eyes as the Quinjet takes off. ‘Dammit!’ he screams, systems coming back online. ‘War Machine, you detain the prisoners.’ Sam is a useless bird without flight and Clint is thrown unconscious by his own explosion. 

‘Roger,’ Rhodey replies, snatching them off the ground. The pillar that toppled onto Rogers is on the ground. 

‘I’m going after Rogers.’ 

  
  
He catches up to the Quinjet above Kansas. It isn’t hard to bring it down, all the engines need to catch into a burst of flames is a spark. 

He lands on one knee, advancing towards the broken plane. He sweeps a bit of debris to the side and digs into the metal edge of the plane with his fingers. It creaks and bends. The fire is in the back and Jarvis informs him that it’s stable, the gas supply was really low. 

A hand appears, scrabbling at the ground. He hears a soft wheeze, nearly a sob, echo from beneath as tattered blue fabric appears and Steve pushes himself out. Tony readies the repulsors. Sets them on stun. ‘Get out of there,’ he says. His voice is strangely- gravelly. The sun is darkening, and his suit is dripping a bit. It isn’t raining here, in Kansas. 

‘Tony,’ Steve breathes, curled on the charred grass. He stumbles up, raising his fists. ‘Don’t, please… don’t.’ 

Tony’s face softens. Steve hates seeing Tony hurt and he’d never do it himself. ‘Just sign them. You’ll be able to get home.’

Steve gazes at Tony, eyes wet and broken. 

‘I can’t do that, Tony. I won’t sign myself away, this is- this is proof enough that it’s madness, you can’t,  _ please _ , we can’t do this. You’re going to destroy everything with your political agenda, this can’t be the end, please, please,’ his voice is drowned out by blood pounding in Tony’s head.

Tony should have known. He glares beneath the faceplate. ‘Have it your way, then.’

Steve launches himself forward first, towards Tony’s legs. His bad left knee gives out, but Tony’s good. He punches Steve’s head twice, before he’s pulled fully off balance and needs to right himself. While he’s distracted, Steve takes advantage of the maneuverability to knock his bloody knuckles through the already worn plates, catching a few and knocking them off. Tony knees him in the mouth, he;’s never seen- he’s never  _ seen _ Steve fight like this. 

Steve’s mouth is bloody as he grins up at Tony. ‘Having fun, Stark? Should have left while you could?’ 

Tony snarls, lunging forward to grab Steve’s head, but the cowl is as slippery as glass to his metal fingertips. They must be cold, he thinks. He wants Steve to hurt, badly. ‘You’re the one who should have backed out! You think you’re worth anything to me? I gave you everything, Rogers! I gave you a home, I stayed with you when you were hurt. Always knew you were useless to be anything but a weapon.’ His head is pounding, his vision is a bit foggy. Concussion, maybe. 

Steve’s face falls, wrecked open one last time. Tony is distracted, not fighting at his best, and he is too focused on his enemy, his rival, beginning to bleed out. He hauls back to catch Steve with the repulsors. ‘What’s the power I need to take him down?’ he asks Jarvis. 

‘Charging repulsors.’ There’s no sir. Huh. 

‘Tony, Tony!  _ Top _ , please, please, please,’ Steve screams, writhing. It only makes Tony’s grip tighter. When he speaks again, his voice is tiny. A small gasp. ‘Please.’

  
  
It’s too late to say anything else as he blasts Steve in the heart. He falls, limp, to the ground. 

Tony takes a moment to stare at the sweet man who used to smile at romance books, cry too easily, hold Tony like he was precious. 

‘Autopilot home,’ he growls. ‘Make his fugitive status public. Whoever finds him will bring him to Ross.’ 


	7. Chapter 7

Two weeks go by, and any anger has died down. It’s changed into grief, now, quiet grief like plunging into a lake of ice, unable to scream. The details appear on the news. Evidence of a plane crash, trails of blood leading into a river, the tatters of old stars- wings on the cowl- left behind. Tony is often speechless. Pepper lets him sleep in her apartment, on her couch. 

The guilt crowds around him, long and snaking. Never ending. This sin is endless. There’s a black, velvet box in his pocket and it chases his thoughts every time he tries falling asleep. 

The cabin is just as he remembered, on first sight. But the nights are cold, the windows freeze over. He takes a long look at the blackberries, knows not to come back.

Tony sobs down to his bones and helps rip the Accords to shreds in the press. He has a need to destroy, he can’t believe the things he told Steve as he was killing him, he can’t believe the look on his face. Tony wishes someone would burst in and strangle him. There is reporting on Steve’s death for twenty four hours, but Khloe Kardashian is getting remarried and it’s been on the books for weeks. The tabloids fill with pictures of the happy couple and the real newspapers follow suit, albeit with more serious things. 

All Tony feels is death. Everywhere, he sees Steve’s eyes, he remembers the way he sang along to music he liked, he is… _Tony_ is dead. This is unreal. It can’t be real. 

It is a ruinous battlefield. He feels ill.

* * *

‘What are you planning to memorialize him with?’ Tony asks Fury. This meeting is a- it’s frozen, forsaken by the gods of decency and love. His lover, his victim, his Steve deserves a quiet funeral. Peaceful one. 

Fury leads him through the winding halls of SHIELD. ‘Why do you ask? Are you planning to attend the funeral?’ he asks, raising his eyebrows.

‘You never know. The nation is in mourning. The Captain is dead,’ he says, digging his bitten nails into his thigh. There are flaking scabs where the nail beds used to sit. 

‘We’re lucky it was just Captain America. If it was anyone else, the public would be appalled. The only people who love Captain America are the ones that dislike you, Stark,’ Fury says first. No condolences or sympathetic smiles. ‘It’s going to end up being easy to handle, I’m betting. Downplay it. Air the funeral, but don’t open it to the public. He can have a memorial at Arlington, the army will arrange it.’ Fury is his usual self. Tony hasn’t been getting much sleep, he hasn’t been eating, and the room feels especially chilly. ‘No family or friends. He was living with you at the time, correct, Stark? That will make it easy.’ 

Tony nods. ‘I can arrange the funeral if you like. I did kill him, after all,’ he offers. His voice is normal. 

‘That would be good. Make it tasteful, Stark. No one wants the funeral of a national icon to be gauche,’ he warns. Tony just nods. ‘Dismissed.’

He flies back to their house. 

It’s quiet, still waiting for someone to come home. The green, velvety couch used to have a soft little imprint in it from where Steve was sitting the last time he was here. There’s ribbon dangling off the edge of the table from when Steve tried his hand at a homemade birthday card for Sam. Tony’s phone makes a noise, and he finally looks away from the scene. It’s Barton.

_hopefully everyone agrees to attend the funeral. steve doesn’t have very many friends_

Tony snarls, watch reacting, and blows out the back windows. He whirls and shatters the front ones, too.

There are shards of glass skittering on the floor. Tony shouldn’t care this much, they’re enemies. Never even special. They have nothing. Steve means nothing, except for the tears streaking down Tony’s face in a flood, dripping down his chin. There’s lumps in his throat as he sobs through the pain.

That night, the shattered glass twinkles like stars while he is on the floor, curled into his knees and staring beyond the walls. There’s nothing in him, just this dripping, hollow deadness. 

His bones are empty and lacking. There is a void where his heart belongs. 

* * *

‘Stark,’ Sam says, storming through his lab. ‘You said the Accords were on thin ice?’

‘Yes?’ Tony valiantly puts on a face. ‘These things take time.’ 

Wilson makes a face, frowning deeply and shoving a sheaf of papers under Tony’s nose. They still smell like fresh ink. ‘Read it. It’s- I want them gone. The Accords. I want them gone already.’

Tony swallows and looks down at the paper. In bolded letters, it reads as follows: **Hate Crimes and the Raft**

His heart jackrabbits. No, _no_ , that can’t be it. He’d heard that for a week before they were released on Tony’s dime and Tony’s word, Sam and Clint had been staying there. 

The two of them crash through the windows leading to Ross’ mansion. He is standing in a polo and casual pants, staring at the glass on the floor, horrified. But he scrambles back for his gun, quickly. ‘Stark! Stand down!’

_‘I was acting on vital information. A well-informed source that has insisted they stay anonymous provided me undeniable proof that human rights violations were happening under our noses. As an agent of the United Nations, I was obligated to put a stop to it.’_

Tony stalks forward, shoulders twitching, as Sam swoops down beside him. He still keeps his eyes averted from Tony, away from his blood-red repulsors. He hasn’t worn the suit since-

‘You’re under arrest, Ross. Everything you say can and will be used against you, so on and so forth.’ Tony says it in a low voice. 

Ross’ face changes. Tony knew him as an austere man, almost like- not Obie, but other people like him, ‘Always knew… you’d turn on me eventually,’ he pants. ‘You’re a Stark. It’s in your nature.’ 

‘Maybe it’s you. You’re a Ross, it’s in your nature to be a slimy prick,’ Tony retorts. 

Ross snorts, blood streaming from his nose. ‘At least Rogers is already dead. The last mutant.’ He grins, another red drop glistening on his upper lip. Tony’s mouth parts in wordless silence. ‘For the smartest man alive, Stark, you were terribly easy to manipulate, you know.’ 

‘Stark.’ Wilson snaps his name out before shooting behind him, more than capable of taking on the sadistic men that salivate at the feet of Ross’ depravity. 

Tony rushes forward and grabs him by the neck. ‘What?’ he asks softly, squeezing. 

Ross’ eyes don’t even seem human. Underneath, it is only an animal. ‘I wanted you to kill him. I wanted him dead.’

‘He’s not- he isn’t dead yet,’ Tony says, voice faltering. He doesn’t know how Sam Wilson can bear to hear him talk about this kind of thing over comms. Military composure and self-control, perhaps. 

‘You’re planning the wake!’ Ross spits, writhing around in Tony’s metal grasp. ‘You killed him, and you’re- you’re planning… the fucking _funeral_ ,’ he finishes, snarling as his breath leaves him. 

_‘Furthermore, I wasn’t aware if you were complicit in these human rights abuses or not. They were happening under your noses, you see, and_ my _nose. I won’t take those kinds of chances.’_

The Falcon takes care of anyone security guards skulking around the property.

_‘It was just an accident, that Ross died.’_

* * *

Steve had a little sister, dead sometime in the late 20s. A stillbirth. His mother and father are lined up beside each other. That’s what he sees when the empty casket swathed in a flag lowers into the ground. His mom and his dad and his little sister. Tony bows his head, whispering a prayer- he doesn’t believe in God, but Steve does. Steve. Steve, oh his wonderful, shining, dead old lover, the best part of his life. It had been brutal. Fleeting.

There are twenty minutes of driving between the burial and the reception. Tony doesn’t let other people drive him around, but he can barely trust himself to keep his hands safe on the wheel. 

‘He was a sweetheart,’ Tony says. He’s in a constant state of shaking motion, a walking morgue. ‘Standoffish, sometimes, but- but he just wanted to love and be loved.’ 

‘No.’ Rhodey sounds breathy, the only sympathetic one so far. ‘Tony, you’ve gotta be kidding me.’ Tony lets his head hang down, eyes squeezed shut. 

‘Wish I was, Rhodey. I really wish I was.’ If he looks up, there will be a billboard advertising the zoo’s new penguin exhibit. Tony swings the car into the left lane, speeding around a corner. The accelerator pressed down easy under his foot. 

‘That explains why you offered to plan the funeral.’ His voice is strangely quiet. Tony reaches out to grip Rhodey’s hand. ‘I was wondering.’

‘Wonder no more,’ Tony says, pulling onto the familiar boulevard. Rhodey sucks in a breath when he sees the little house, front window blasted out. ‘This was ours,’ he explains, staring straight ahead at the front door. It’s still navy blue, the way they painted it. 

Rhodey shuts the door of the car, slowly walking out onto the driveway. They’ll be wondering, at the funeral, where Tony is. Or maybe they think he’s glad that Steve is gone- dead- now, the last loose end that leads into a casket. Tony’s said, plenty of times, that Steve Rogers is dead to him. 

Tony’s steps are slow, his hands shake as he turns the key into the lock. Rhodey leans into him and wraps his arm around Tony’s shoulders. He smells nice, he’s wearing the cologne Tony bought him for his birthday. It suddenly hits Tony that no one will ever be as strong as Steve. 

‘I’ll never get to apologize,’ he mumbles, leading Rhodey through the kitchen. It’s still a mess, glass everywhere, but he remembers it like the back of his hand. They walk up to the bedroom. 

‘You don’t need to apologize, Tony. You were right.’

‘I was awful,’ he laughs. ‘I acted like I would take care of him no matter what and the second he disagreed, all of my protection was gone. He spent his last few months thinking that I didn’t care about him at all. And I _didn’t_. I didn’t even have the decency to listen to him when it mattered. I never… I should’ve apologized. He spent his last months being ignored while I worked on the Accords.’

‘I never expected this from you.’

Tony laughs a little, smile sliding off of his face until it was never there at all. Steve, back in their affair, he was the prettiest thing there was. He trusted Tony. ‘I never thought I would do something like that.’ 

The silence stretches on. ‘We should get back to the service,’ Rhodey tells him, leading him back out of the house. He was so strong, Rhodey. 

Tony never lets anyone else drive, it’s a hazard, but there’s no reason to care now, is there? ‘You drive,’ he says, tossing the keys over. 

_You killed him_ , the voices whisper. It’s a punishment. He grinds his teeth when they pull into the lot and Rhodey gives the keys to the valet. _You killed him_ .  
  
He can’t believe that he’s the one who did it. He remembers Steve’s eyes, pleading and sweet, and he remembers his hubris. To think he could kill a legend like that- no, Steve wasn’t a legend, not a weapon or a toy. Tony never saw it, not before, but Steve littered the signs that he didn’t belong like a flower girl at a wedding did to rose petals. 

‘Do you need to cry?’ Rhodey asks. Tony remembers asking him that, before. Do you need to cry, do you need a hug? Rhodey’s big, wet eyes, the shaken look on his face. He remembers thinking he could help Steve find peace, and then blasting him down.

He shakes his head, eyes dull and shadowed as the look at the tiny funeral gathering. ‘What’s it going to do? I could cry, and cry, but it wouldn’t change a thing.’ 

Rhodey holds his arm and they walk in. He gets a few shots- three- and holds them up to Sam Wilson. The two of them liked to play around, birds in the sky, before Tony. 

The tightening of his chest slithers through, as he remembers the repulsor blast charring Steve’s uniform and his cheek. He can just _imagine_ \- Steve, bloodied and crying, wandering into the river. Even if he’d gotten to surgery, no one would… no one would hold his hand.  
  
There are a few lilies surrounding his smiling portrait, a couple melancholy reminders of his life that could never sum up the man Steve was. Tony gets a scotch and stands in front of it. He wants to feel angry- how could he just do that? Flagrant and brave and so, so stupid. He should have signed. 

He should have _stayed_. 

But Tony can’t bring himself to call Steve anything but perfect. ‘Did you do it?’ The voice next to him is growly, and startling. He whips around. 

Steve has talked about Bucky Barnes enough for Tony to recognize his face. ‘What do you mean?’ Tony asks, clearing his throat. 

‘Did you do it? It’s fine, I won’t blame you, I- I killed people too, not so long ago, just because. Collateral damage acceptable, they would tell me, and, and I’d follow orders. Did you kill my Stevie?’ 

Tony’s voice is a low whisper. He catches Rhodey’s eye, across the room. ‘He was my Steve, too.’

* * *

James Buchanan Barnes is a mystery. A good man, though. It hurts, because he sees Steve in him and his little protege, Wanda. There’s supposed to be a junior Avengers squad, but the only people on it are Wanda and Pietro. Bucky brought them from their HYDRA base. There’s a story Tony guesses he’ll never learn.

Tony thinks it’s quite strange that they can move without feeling haunted. There are devils at his back, sent down from God and Sarah Rogers to scrape through his mouth when he makes a sound, prick at his eyes when he thinks about what he’s done. ‘Happy Anniversary.’ Natasha comes to the penthouse with a bottle of vodka and a half empty tumbler of scotch. He looks up from his work. 

‘What are we celebrating?’’ he asks carefully. Her mouth twitches, but she doesn’t say anything. They both know that Steve’s ghost follows Tony everywhere it can be. They both know who they’re mourning tonight. 

Technically, Steve was declared legally dead a month after their fight, but he was dead the second Tony left him there. It’s been two months since he walked into the river and never came out. Smashed on the rocks. ‘Oh, this and that.’ She wanders over and collapses next to him, eyes squeezed shut. Tony reaches out to hold her hand, clutching it in his.

‘How is everything?’ he says gently. ‘At the Compound? Sam holding up?’

‘He’s as lovely as ever,’ she replies, scooting back in the bed and dragging Tony’s comforter up to her knees. ‘Bucky remembers me. It’s funny, but he does.’

‘Ha! He remembers me, too.’ Tony shuts his eyes, looks down at the floor. ‘I think he killed my parents.’ 

She snorts with laughter, crawling her fingers across his chest and tipping her head into the crook between neck and shoulder. ‘That’s horrible. He’s Bucky, though. If you know him, you love him. I can see why Steve liked him so much.’ 

Tony can hear her heart thundering, the frantic beats hitting against him. 

‘Did he talk about Bucky a lot when he was staying with you? You guys did that, right? The roommates thing?’

‘Steve didn’t deserve to live at SHIELD, you know. I tried the roommates thing, but we didn’t see each other much. He was always out on missions,’ Tony tells her. 

‘Of course,’ she breathes. Tony feels a wet tear dripping on his neck. 

‘You and Barnes, though? Are you?’ He washes down the lump in his throat with scotch. He tries to, at least. 

‘He has a lot to heal from. I don’t know.’ She sighs heavily. 

‘They didn’t even cover him in the news, you know,’ Tony tells her bitterly. ‘He’s going to be gone forever, and he didn’t get more than a few days.’ 

‘There’s the media for you. Tony Stark has a one night stand and they’re all over it, but Steve Rogers dies tragically and everyone forgets him in a day.’ She giggles- from the vodka, Tony’s guessing- and burrows under the covers. 

‘Yeah, I guess that’s just the way it is,’ he exhales. He lays on his back, too. In the distant future, he glimpses peace.  
  
Eventually, Steve’s memory will fade, even for Tony. It’s _bitterly_ unfair that it’s ended up like this. He gave his all, for- for freedom, for his country, and then they forgot about him. Some people would say, _such is the way of life_. Tony tries to think of something else to talk about. Besides the itchy guilt on his skin. Besides the wanton longing for what they used to have. Besides Natasha’s haunted, sharp looks when she talked about Bucky Barnes. 

There is nothing but these tragedies, though.

* * *

Tony goes down to the Compound every so often, when he’s asked to. It’s where he meets the kid. See, Natasha is spending a few days at a spa with Sam, resting- she deserves rest- and she’s asked him to hold down the fort. Bucky and his kiddos are stationed with the Wakandan Avengers across the world. It’s a quiet evening. 

The paper in his hands is crinkled, old with wear. Tony’s wearing his glasses and they keep slipping down his nose. See, it feels like Steve will come ‘round the corner, asking where his new package of shirts is, or if they can get Italian for dinner, or there will be a noise of pain from his room that tells Tony Steve is awake. It’s silent, though. No noise, no quiet kisses. 

‘Ms. Natasha?’ That’s a kid’s voice. Tony whips his head around. ‘Oh my God! Tony Stark!’ 

Tony stands up, on his guard, to face the frozen, awestruck kid with the floppy brown hair and freckles. He doesn’t seem like much of a threat. He looks like he could be bowled over in a split second. ‘Kid? Who’re you?’ he asks suspiciously, pulling out his gauntlet just to be safe. 

He sounds really comical when he lets out a little eep, eyes widening at the weapon in Tony’s hand. He raises his eyebrow. ‘Oh, uh, I’m on the Avengers, sir. The Junior Avengers squad. I was supposed to come here to be outfitted with tech?’ 

Tony frowns. ‘Huh. I didn’t know we had another member.’ 

‘I’m new and I have a secret identity,’ the kid volunteers, chewing anxiously on his bottom lip. 

‘Well, then, you’d better follow me. Secret identity, you say? What are your powers?’ 

‘Wait! Where are we going?’ The kid jogs to catch up, looking around the high ceilings and cozy couches. 

‘You need a suit? I’m the best in the business, kiddo.’ Tony flashes a smile, nearly genuine. 

‘Whoa, like Edna Mode?’ 

‘Like- no, not like Edna Mode. I’m more sophisticated than that. And I think capes are cool,’ he adds. ‘What’s your name, again?’

‘Peter Parker! I’m Spider-man in my free time. If you were wondering.’ He sounds relatively proud of himself. Tony is glad to know that kids these days are still proud of themselves when they do something cool, he’s heard they’re suffering from chronically low self-esteem as a generation. 

‘Spider-man? More like spider baby. You’re cute, kid, but I’m not sure you have the chops to be a superhero,’ he says, amused. Looking back, he sees the scrunched, frustrated face behind him rushing to keep up. 

‘Oh yeah?’ And the kid reaches out- and punches a wall! _Punches_. A wall. Straight through the drywall. Tony stares at him. 

Even Peter looks surprised by what he’s done.

‘Nat’s going to be angry. Jarvis, call the repairman to get this hole patched. Look what you’ve done, Peter! Didn’t anyone tell you that pride comes before the fall?’ he scolds. 

‘What? Mr. Stark, I’m sorry!’ he squeaks. ‘I didn’t mean to, I swear.’ He removes his arm, dusting off bits of drywall. 

‘You are lucky. That I’m a billionaire.’ Tony points a finger at him, mock disappointment on his face. ‘Now tell me the specs of your suit. Any needed upgrades? You plan anything with Nat? I’m guessing Mr. Wilson was going to help you out, but you’re twelve. No messing around with drills or saws. Definitely no soldering irons…’ What else are kids not allowed to have? 

‘I’m a genius. Actually.’ Tony aches again (it aches all of the time) for the kind of brash, eager confidence this baby has. He takes a moment, time juddering around him as he tries to gather his wits. 

‘Sure, kid.’ He smiles; tired. ‘Let’s get that suit done.’ 

Once they’re in the lab, the kid is this bouncing bundle of joy. Tony tries to mentor him, but he wasn’t lying. He’s a genius, he’s. His powers are really incredible, actually. 

Tony studies at him for a moment, wondering where the powers came from. Where the drive came from. 

‘What? Do I have something on my face?’ Peter asks, wrinkling his nose and looking down at himself. 

‘Nah. Just wondering what made you want to be a hero.’ They all have a reason. Steve’s was incredibly _good_. Tony, Nat, Clint, they fight to prove something, to avenge their pasts. Thor fights because it was all he ever knew. Steve fought to help people. 

  
The kid gets all shy. Looks at the ground, swallows. ‘I don’t know,’ he says softly. ‘But I’ve already lost people. I just want… I want to help. I don’t want other people to lose people,’ he tells Tony. 

Tony chokes out a noise, a little _oh_ , before stumbling away. Hs throat tastes like the coffee he’d had this morning, and he touches it lightly, before doubling over. He crumples to the ground with a sob. Steve would have _loved_ him. 

  
  


* * *

The hurt is an old one, now. Quiet but aching. ‘You knew Captain America _well_? Wow. What was he like?’ Peter asks, fascinated. 

‘The embodiment of American imperialism?’ Wanda teases. 

‘Nice. Sad.’ It’s a state secret that Tony dealt the killing blow and left him to die on his own. Classified. 

Peter looks at him strangely, but he looks away. ‘You know, Ned is really into conspiracy theories, and he says that the Captain’s still alive.’

‘What?’ Wanda asks, gaping. 

Peter nods furiously. ‘Yeah! I mean, they never found the body,’ he says, trailing off meaningfully. Tony’s eyes prick with tears. 

‘What did he even do? He didn’t have a real job!’ Wanda giggles. ‘Other than running missions, I guess.’ 

‘Wasn’t he from the 40s? Did he read the newspaper?’ Peter asks. ‘Wait, oh, _and_ there’s this theory that something happened while he was in the ice. Shady stuff.’ 

Tony pretends to laugh, shaking his head in bemusement. ‘Kids these days.’ 

‘Hey!’ Wanda cries. ‘Our theories are perfectly valid! Ned’s theories. And if they never even found the body, it isn’t a stretch to believe he’s alive. He can survive, like, a _lot_.’ 

‘What was he really like, though, Mr. Stark? You knew him! Mr. Barnes and Ms. Romanoff remember him a little but I don’t think he had any friends in the future. It makes me sad.’ At least Peter is being thoughtful. 

Tony sighs wetly. He is like one of those old, misty-eyed women mourning their lost affairs and telling their grandchildren. He has aged enough to be a grandfather within the past year. Grief and old friendships and a dead rivalry and too many tears to count. ‘I’d do anything for him. He was special like that.’ He smiles. ‘He liked privacy and he got really scared something. He’d been through a hell of a lot. Never really fixed himself, you know. I’d do anything to help him just one more time. If he was back, I’d just take him out. For- ice cream, you know. He’d want soft serve swirl, if I had to guess. I’d take him out to the beach. Anything. Whatever he wanted.’ 

_Steve Rogers was a great man. He was an inspiration for us all. He served his country well. He tried his best, he followed orders, he sacrificed himself._ Tony has a list of things he can pull out, if it comes down to it. When the rare question comes up, he answers in stale tones. 

Peter knocks into him with a hug, Wanda not close behind. Tony’s eyes squeeze shut as they swamp him with affection. ‘I’m sorry you lost him,’ Peter whispers.

  
  
Tony swallows.

* * *

  
  
  


Steve blinks his eyes open and already, something feels… not right. The air is too clean and fresh. Through the haze of drowsy, long sleep, he makes out a few things. Glowing screens, geometric screens separating him from other beds, screens that resemble glowing mirrors more than they do the dusty television sitting on Steve and Tony’s dresser at home. He catches his breath, still looking around. The city, he- he doesn’t recognize it. 

_Oh God_ , he thinks, numbly. _It’s happened again_. 

The world falls away. All he can remember is speaking with Tony about the nature of the future over a hot cup of tea- mulled wine for Tony, maybe- and thinking in relief that with someone so knowledgeable he’d never worry again. He won’t be that lucky, he won’t be lucky enough to be kept safe anymore. There are fancy IV fluids going into his arm, and they tear when he starts to gasp. 

  
Tears crawl down his face, a downpour of tragedy as he bows over his knees. 

The nurse walks in. Steve doesn’t care. 

‘Tony, Tony, Tony,’ he mumbles, like he used to when they were cutting him open. Tony is probably dead, he won’t be there to hold Steve’s hand and rub it in that special way that he does, or- or watch the moon landing with him on Christmas Eve so it’s like he never missed out in the first place. How many events has he missed out on now? How many wars, how many Avengers are left?  
  
He starts scratching at his arms, holding his pounding head between his hands. ‘Help!’ he screams suddenly, as sharp pain rockets through him. 

The nurse pushes down his chest with one hand and readjusts the IV in his arm. It relaxes him a little when the drugs hit just right. He’s left, chest heaving, face still soaked with tears, to stare out the window. ‘Captain, I need you to tell me if anything is still in pain now,’ she asks, checking the two bags attached to him. 

He’s forgotten how awful it is to wake up in a hospital alone. The city outside is… it’s wonderful. It’s one of the prettiest damn things he’s ever seen. He’s too ugly for it, too broken. There are scabs on his chest, he can feel part of his head that’s been shaved of hair.  
  
But that can’t be right. If he’s been in a coma for decades, he- his hair will have grown back. The bruises will have healed, he won’t have urgent pain. ‘When is this?’ he asks, eyes snapping to the nurses face. 

‘It’s been nearly six months since your altercation with Stark, Captain.’  
  
Steve’s still crying, but it’s happy now. He buries his face into his pillow and smiles and sobs and there is still heat growing behind him, the nurse is rubbing his back. ‘Thank you,’ he whispers. The drugs lull him back to sleep, he’s… drowsy, he doesn’t _hurt_ so much like this. His head tips back and he softens into the bed. 

* * *

Steve wakes up. It’s familiar to have a hand in his own, but not- not this one. When he drags his eyes open, it’s _Bucky’s_ face that he sees, not Tony’s. For a moment, he is speechless. 

‘Hey, pal. Heard you freaked out.’ His new voice is harsher. Different intonation, but the same words. Steve isn’t sure if this Bucky is a plant, like Fury did with that nurse, or if he’s real-life Bucky, who’d been running from him for years. 

‘Please let go of my hand.’ His words are garbled and dry, but Bucky backs off. 

‘Sure thing. Heard you got in a big fight with Stark.’ Steve can’t believe Tony abandoned him like that, left him to rot, to wither in the Raft. He remembers the look on his face, the betrayal. He turns in the bed, side to side, as he tries to cover his mouth. 

He might _scream_ , knowing he was left like that. Knowing that Tony hates him now. ‘Hey! Hey, Steve!’ Bucky says, sitting right next to him. ‘You’ve got a lotta broken things, you need to stop moving!’ he orders. 

Steve closes his eyes, trembling with sobs. If there were a Chair, here, to make his mind blank, he’d plug it in himself. It’s just like after the ice. 

Every memory hurts, every smile he’d given to Tony is a punch to the gut. He’d slept with him, kissed him shyly, confessed the sins and trauma that weighed him down. ‘Make it stop,’ Steve demands, coughing harshly 

‘Steve! Stevie, what’s wrong? What’s hurting?’ Bucky asks desperately. 

Steve shakes his head, lurching forward to put his forehead in his hands. The sheets bind his weakling body down. ‘Tony,’ he says- Tony washing the blood out of his hair. ‘Tony, Tony, Tony, Tony.’ 

Tony, kissing him good night with a charming smile on his face, Tony, on top of him, thrusting gently, Tony telling him he’ll always have a home…

Tony, holding a glass of champagne loosely, barefoot in the grass, offering Steve a blackberry. 

It’s all he wants, someone to love him like that. He never felt so safe as he was during his time with Tony. 

* * *

The phone needs a different ringtone. Every time that Tony is the slightest bit comfortable, let alone sleepy, it startles him awake. He groans when it happens this time, at midnight, rolling his chair over to the desk. ‘Hello, there should be a reason you’re calling this late at night, please make it quick-’

T’Challa laughs lightly. ‘You’re awake anyway, my friend. I know you.’ He does. Tony smiles a little. 

‘I am,’ he acknowledges. ‘But I _am_ in the middle of something. Cut to the point, highness, my other work can’t really wait.’ The sounds on the other end of the line pause. He’s never seen T’Challa uncomfortable, the man is more skilled with the public than even Tony. But he’s holding a breath, holding back. 

It has to be about Steve. Tony holds the phone away, so no one hears when he sighs, wetly, eyes squeezed shut. His name. His memory. Tony’s heart is so tender, though he’s loathe to admit it, he’s tender, soft and open for the taking when Steve is brought up. 

‘I am afraid I’ve been keeping secrets from you.’ T’Challa breaks the silence. ‘I will be insistent on the fact that it was never to hurt you, but the fact remains. I know you think he’s dead. But Tony, that’s not quite true.’ Tony’s breath catches. ‘I wouldn’t tell you, it’s really no secret what happened-’

His voice is cold. Not as cold as the way Tony feels, though. Perhaps the frostbite of grief will touch him again?

‘But I digress. He’s asking for you.’ 

‘What? He- he’s alive?’ Tony can barely feign okayness. He has a couple tears making spotty tracks down his face. 

T’Challa pauses. ‘Yes,’ he says delicately. ‘After you nearly killed him, Stark, he survived. I didn’t trust the American government to take care of him properly. We have better technology. You know this. He’s just woken up.’ 

Tony suddenly remembers why this is so bad. No one was there for Steve. ‘He’s asking for me? I’m on the next flight- no, no I’ll take the suit. God.’ He pulls at his hair, looking wildly around the room. No time for an undersuit. He drops his phone, ignoring T’Challa’s continued speech, more and more agitated. 

He takes a flying leap out the window, caught by the cradle of his suit. ‘Stark!’

‘Sorry, sorry. I’m on my way. It might take an hour.’ His breathing is labored. He feels like he could be dying, surrounded by all this metal and no Steve in sight. ‘Unless he doesn’t want me.’

‘He wants you. Barnes has assured me he does want you. He isn’t doing well.’ Tony’s fault. He chokes on a sob; the suit doesn’t mask it. ‘Physically, I promise you that he’s fine. But he won’t stop talking about you. He continues to say your name. It’s been days since he began.’

The repulsors of the suit stutter to life. Maximum power always hurts, presses physics through him. The pressure tends to mount up, but he’ll be fine. ‘I can’t believe he’s alive.’ Tony’s hands are shaking. ‘Autopilot, Friday.’

‘Stark, you need to be careful. I have not seen the Captain this sick. Tread carefully.’

Tony brushes it off. ‘He’s sick all the time. Can’t help himself, you know, from jumping off of buildings. Stuff like that. I can’t believe I’m not there, he’s probably missing me. You know, I- _I’m_ supposed to hold his hand. He’s mine. It’s my job to keep him safe, I promised, _I_ … sorry. Sorry, can’t think. Fucking, _fucking_ adrenaline. You don’t deserve that language, Your Highness. I’m sorry.’

‘My God.’ T’Challa sounds astonished. At the very least, it snaps Tony out from his spiral of words, growing tears. ‘You were lovers?’ he asks smoothly.

  
  
T’Challa’s voice is calming in a way Tony can’t describe. 

‘I- yes, we were.’ Tony’s soft, his words devolve into mumbles of assurance. There’s this dangerous, flattening emotion threatening to overwhelm him. He closes his eyes and tries to hope. 

* * *

Sure enough, when he arrives, weak kneed from the physical stress of being in the suit, Barnes is there. ‘He’s been asking for you,’ he rumbles, chancing a furtive glance at Tony’s wild eyes before looking away again. 

‘Sorry,’ Tony says, and suddenly, he is _running_ , devil on his heels, predator in pursuit, running for his life, running. 

It’s clumsy, feels too slow, but he is breathless when he arrives at the hospital rooms. Barnes hasn’t even broken a sweat, jogging after Tony easily. ‘Easy,’ he growls. ‘You make sure to keep quiet. Be gentle,’ he says, each word precise. 

Tony stares at the door, fumbling as he tries to unlock it with clammy fingers. Barnes pries his hands away from the door, where they go to clench at the fabric of his pants. ‘Sorry,’ he mutters, choked off and terrified. There are guards behind them, nearly invisible. 

The door creaks open.

Steve is in the hospital bed, curled on his side. He’s sleeping soundly, eyes clenched shut. ‘Oh God,’ Tony whispers. There is a tender, delicate bloom in his chest, easily crumpled by the rest of the world. Steve is alive. He’s alive. Tony’s day has been frantic, moving too fast to register. 

But there, there is Steve. Sleeping softly, wrapped in blankets, _alive_ , not dead. Tony bites his knuckle to keep from breaking into sobs. He walks slowly into the room; heart weak, susceptible to whatever kind of damage Steve deems acceptable. 

The tile underfoot is quiet as a mouse the closer Tony gets. In the air hangs a reverent silence, reserved for funerals, for, for- Tony covers his mouth, backbone trembling, as he tries to move closer. He sits in the chair right next to Steve’s sleeping form, leaning back. Hollow bones echo with the frequency of the heart monitor in the room.

Tony is _exhausted_.

He reaches out and catches Steve’s fingers in his. They’re warm.

* * *

‘He’s due to wake up in an hour.’ Tony startles awake to night, to Bucky Barnes’ voice. The sky is lit up with tiny lights from the buildings of Wakanda. 

Tony blinks slowly. ‘What?’ he said, voice raspy and quiet. ‘How do you know?’ The air feels foggy, wispy bits of old memories come back to haunt him.

Suddenly, the phantom lover remembers to strike. A couple of tears tumble down his cheeks. Steve’s palm twitches, only making Tony squeeze it tighter. It feels anything but real. Further than his wildest imagination. His shoulders wilt. Still in his crumpled suit, pretending like he’s a good man. ‘They figured out an anaesthetic for him.’

  
  
Tony removes his hand from Steve’s, remembering a time _long_ past, one where he’d do whatever Steve wanted just because, _hating_ every inch of himself because he didn’t know how to fix things, the wilted flower garden at their house that they never spent enough time at. ‘I’m glad.’ Tony pulls his hand up to his mouth, leaning over it and breathing in the smell. 

Steve does wake up in an hour. ‘Tony,’ he says blindly. There’s a moment captured there, one they have lived a thousand times. Steve is Tony’s past, he’s Tony’s present. 

‘It’s me, darling. I’m right here.’ 

His eyes struggle to open, but when they do, they look different, big and red-rimmed. ‘Tony?’ he asks, voice still slurred from the drugs. ‘But I…’ His face screws up like he is trying to puzzle something out. 

Tony tries to blink away his tears, but they only keep coming, in rivers and oceans and messy sobs, pouring down his face and dripping onto his neck. The floor is hard, his knees meet it with a sharp crack. He is still holding Steve’s hand, lightly, softly, like he deserves. ‘I’m sorry,’ he murmurs, more to himself than anything else. ‘God, Steve, I- you were dead and I did it. It was my fault. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I’m so…’ His voice sounds especially raw today.

Steve, even though he should be weak as a kitten for all his time in the hospital, grips Tony’s hand with the strength of Hercules and drags him up to the bed, turning his face- God, he thought Steve would never touch him again, that he would only be in dreams, or party anecdotes, or the afterlife. ‘Still love you, Tony,’ he manages to say. 

Tony’s breath hitches again, and he presses Steve’s fever-warm hand to his forehead, taking a shuddering breath. ‘Steve?’ Barnes stops short. ‘Stark.’ 

‘Bucky,’ Steve says inanely, head lolling to the side. ‘Bucky?’

‘Didn’t expect me?’ Bucky asks. He’s nothing but slightly curious. Wanda is in the doorway, he’s her main guardian when she’s not in New York with Tony. If Tony had any other brain in his head, he’d step away, like Steve wants. He always _wants_ \- but Tony’s run roughshod over every other thing out there, so he backs away, bloodshot eyes staring vacantly at the glass window. 

Steve lets his hand go. 

‘I’m sorry for the hysterics,’ Tony tells them, voice strange and distant. ‘I missed him.’ 

Steve turns his cheek. Bucky hovers at the door and squints at the two of them. Tony’s forgotten everything. He’s forgotten how much he loves Steve, how much he misses him and how much he’ll be missing him if it goes back to the way it was. ‘The Accords are overturned,’ Bucky tells Steve, eyes looking through their bull _shit_ like it’s nothing but glass, penetrating the fogginess that pervades every single part of their romance. He can see straight through Steve in a way Tony never could. He understands the jealousy for Rhodey now. ‘You could go home today. With Tony.’

Before he can help himself, Tony blurts out an offer. ‘I still- I still have the house.’ 

Wanda’s red hair flashes as she moves back into the hallway. It takes a moment for Tony to realize that all of them, all three of them, all of them know. Secrets make his head hurt. His mouth opens, then shuts. ‘Wanna go home.’ Steve wraps his hands together and squeezes. They are nearly unscarred, just one, on the pinky. His knuckles are turning white. Tony stares at the hands folded together. It reminds him terribly of all those times they would go outside together and refuse to touch. Bucky is a few steps away, outlined in gold lamps hanging from the ceiling, and Tony is kneeling on the floor beside Steve, and he is clutching at his _own hands_. The injustice of it claws into Tony’s heart.

‘You don’t-’ He doesn’t have to hold his own hand. He doesn’t have to comfort _himself_ , for Christ’s sake. ‘Here.’ Tony’s hand slips into his and Steve squeezes. His head is spinning. ‘This is a dream,’ Tony mutters weakly, rubbing at his swollen, tearstained eyes. ‘Can’t be real, you-’

He bites his own knuckle to keep from making a sound again, but he doesn’t let go. ‘Home. Please, Tony,’ Steve says. 

‘Steve…’ Tony looks back over at Barnes, and rests his head on the cold metal of the hospital bed. ‘You can go home whenever you want. Stark’s promised.’ 

‘Promised? Really, y’don’t wanna keep your promises? Tony,’ Steve says again, half-scolding. The king had said that he could not stop saying Tony’s name, but this is really something. It’s something else, to watch Steve’s lazy, drugged vocabulary come up with his own name.

‘I will. T’Challa can get us a jet, right?’ Tony asks, voice strained, looking to Barnes for direction. He nods slowly, arms still folded in front him.

‘I’ll get you two home by tomorrow evening.’ Barnes leaves. 

Steve is looking a little more lucid now. It’s no wonder that the anesthesia wore off fast, it’s pretty expected, actually. ‘Tony, I want you,’ he mumbles, like a drowned cat that’s just been fished out of the river Styx. 

‘What?’ His voice is faint. Steve is a ghost! He is Tony’s past, he is a hallucination and a nightmare and the sweetest dream he could picture, but the cloying scent of medication and clean sheets and sweat is too familiar for Tony to believe it is all a lie. He’d guess that the old room at the Tower is getting a little stale, but it’s just the same as with Steve. 

‘Please come to bed.’ Steve raises his eyebrows lazily. Tony sobs, a punched out little thing, toes off his shoes, and crawls under the covers with him. Arms wrapped around Steve’s midsection, their legs pressed together, Steve’s cheek on his shoulders. 

‘You were right about everything. About Ross. The Accords,’ he murmurs. He’s not one for heartfelt, but he’ll be damned if Steve walks onto that plane later without an explanation. 

‘King T’Challa told me.’ Steve tips his head back. ‘Too tired to be angry right now. I was… I was more scared that you hated me. That you didn’t care.’

Tony wedges a weight behind his eyes, holds the tears back. ‘That’s not healthy, huh? Do you- Steve, can we tell anyone at all?’ _Don’t push it_ , he reminds himself. 

Steve is staring at the ceiling, blue, blue eyes glancing at Tony’s for a moment. ‘That’s probably a good idea.’ They fall asleep together, hands tangled, legs touching, cheeks close. 

* * *

Tony thinks it is a nice night to get to bed early. Peter’s asked him for help with homework and he and Steve attended their therapy like good little superheroes. They ate ice cream for breakfast. That’s always nice. He leaves his work on the desk. The carpet seems to drown his feet as he walks down the hall. 

Tony walks into their bedroom, face softening. Steve is on his side, and the lamplight washes across his pretty face. He’s fallen asleep, it looks like. His book is on his face, and his head is pillowed on his hand. Tony walks in and strips off his shoes. He changes into the fuzzy socks that Peter knitted for him last birthday, trying to keep his movements at zero. 

He fails. ‘Tony?’ 

‘Steve.’  
  


He snorts, sounding affectionate, before jumping out of bed like an agile cat and sweeping Tony off of his feet. ‘Don’t be smart with me.’ 

‘I’ll be as smart as I want to be, no more and no less.’ Steve makes a wrinkled face, rolling his eyes and dropping them both into bed. ‘Oh, come on, I don’t have my pajamas on yet.’

‘I want kisses first.’ They stare each other down. Tony is the first to break, dropping a peck on his cheek, then his forehead. 

‘The audacity!’ There’s one for the soft skin behind Steve’s ear, one on his collarbone. ‘The brattiness!’ One for his lips. ‘Thinking,’ he continues, reaching out to touch noses, ‘That you can just _demand_ these things.’ 

Steve hikes up his shirt and buries his cold fingers into Tony’s ribs, eliciting a squeal. ‘You liar, you like it when I ask for things.’ His smile crinkles at the sides. 

‘I do,’ Tony admits. He’s not good at guessing games, so it’s nice when Steve comes right out and demands it. He knows that Tony is a pushover anyway. ‘If you want to be useful, go get me my pajamas.’ Steve nods, getting up and stretching. His bones crack, back muscles flexing as he goes to grab them out of the pajama drawer. 

‘Got it.’ 

‘Thank you, darling.’ Tony enjoys the view. He’s never seen anyone stronger, anyone more beautiful, than Steve with a bare chest. He still looks sleepy. ‘And some champagne, too.’

Steve shoots him a look, balling up the silken pajamas and tossing them over. ‘Only because I like it, too,’ he makes sure to say before backing out of the room and walking down the stairs. 

Tony snorts, inspecting the book. This time, it’s modern day hunks instead of English ones in the regency era. It looks good. He makes sure the pages are flat before he sets it down on their bedside table and leans back. The champagne pops, echoing through the house. He tips his head back. ‘Music, Jarvis?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Low chords thrum in his chest. Goddamn, but there’s nothing better than these kinds of evenings. 

Lately, they’ve been marginally better, if none of the Avengers are demanding they put in time. Natasha and Barnes have decided to stitch the group together. Good for them. All Tony wants to do is lay in bed and drink champagne like a lush. Maybe, if he’s really generous, kiss the living daylights out of Steve, or teach Peter how to code his little drone. ‘Champagne?’ 

‘God, I love you,’ Tony says, out of the blue. Steve looks surprised, as always, silly man, thinking that he’ll end up brokenhearted. 

‘Right back atcha, sweetheart.’ The chilled glass seems to hit just right. 

The bubbles taste familiar.

**Author's Note:**

> please comment I would love it if you did!!


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